“I know that It’ll pass. I know that things will change and that This will be a memory. I know that other people have gone through worse and I know that I deserve whatever comes to me. I know I’ve escaped many times, I know that It was stupid, I know.

But I’m so weary.

The strings from my shoulders to my toes are being tightened. My heart beats in my head and my brain thinks in my stomach. It’s late and tomorrow will be better because it’s forward. I only find peace in the memory that the eyes to see exactly how dark tonight is, will equally appreciate tomorrow’s light.”

I wrote that a long time ago. I was on the airplane looking through folders and files, and I couldn’t remember what “I know that it’ll pass”, came from. I’m not sure what night it was on, or what was happening, but it’s true, I mean the thing that I found peace in.

Yesterday I was looking through my most recent journal and I found a line that I had written. It said, “what if the stars blotted out the streetlights”. It was scribbled apart from everything else, crossing the horizontal lines of my moleskin.

First of all, I actually like that line. I rarely feel successful with a sentence or a thought, and it’s probably that I had no idea what I was saying, but I think it’s pretty good. When I read it now I think of how we see each other—and how it’s sad that This Person’s or That Person’s streetlights often blot out their stars. The next thing I thought of was a mountain top in Hawaii, and how everything turned to stars after the sun had set beneath the clouds.

Neither the stars nor the streetlights had moved, but I had seen something different.