They tell me I have an interesting life. Going places, seeing people, and I shrug my shoulders as I pour another drink, sitting lonely on my floor in my empty room, another Sunday, in another city, like I’ve done so many times for so many years and they tell me I’m lucky and should be grateful. And yes, I am grateful. I was grateful walking lonely through a freezing Berlin on Christmas Eve last year and I was grateful as I lied about my name and job and age to everyone I met and meet and if you seek the papers where I’ve been the last years you will find nothing. Or at best, or worst, a spread-out girl leaving small traces here and there, covering it up with different states of mind or jobs or names and there was a time they said I would go places. I would go places, they said, once, way back when. And this is what I think of as I’m sitting lonely on the train home from another night of beautiful people, welcoming me into their homes with open arms. I played some songs and they hugged me like I’ve never been hugged before, by anyone who knows me, and they told me “thank you” and “I love you” and hugged me again, like I’ve never been hugged by anyone who knows me, and they were grateful. For me. And so was I. For them. Human interaction: the most complicated form of happiness I will never figure out.
// from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love
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