Washed away.

There, while trying to stay dry under a pink footbridge with a bunch of strangers maybe dying to go home as well, I wanted to cry. Perhaps because it was a Friday and the whole week had beaten me up. Or because the world was populated by jerks and I was starting to notice and to learn that the only way to deal with them was to stay cool enough not to be like them. Or because I realised every single day that had passed was exactly like that particular Friday.

On the long trip home I was trying to figure out what was wrong. Or why there was wrong. Why I was pissed off by the smallest things, why I had the most absurd thoughts, why thing planned turned out on the verge of falling apart. But during times when everything suggests chaos, making sense is engulfed by the bigger need that is to make order. And so at some point I had to stop the drama in my head and ask a different question. How.

But it was hard to carry on. After all, I was already tired. The closest thing I could do was wish. Maybe that what I had been could be like where I was - washed away. But I could not really remember. It dawned upon me now there was something else I forgot.