Sometimes it feels like I’m a stranger in my own life. I stand next to people, just close enough to hear them, but far enough away that they don’t truly see me. Last night, I tried to fill the silence with laughter, to drown the pain in alcohol, only to make that same familiar mistake: Losing myself, separating my body from my soul, hoping that the emptiness would hurt less if I ignored it. But the truth is: I’ve grown used to this loneliness. It’s almost comforting to be alone, intoxicated by my own thoughts, my own mistakes. Yet sometimes I wonder: Is this my home, when nothing feels familiar anymore? When the walls around me no longer smell like me? I look into the past, trying to let it go with a smile, even though I know it shaped me, even though I know I would do it all the same again. Perhaps the comfort doesn’t lie in forgetting, but in accepting the wounds, like scars I carry with me. But it always rains when you’re not here. The world turns grey, and I wonder if I’ll ever find the wings to carry me out of this chaos. And so I stay here, on my little spaceship, surrounded by memories, alone with my thoughts, thoughts that sometimes tear me apart, but are also the reason I’m still breathing. Maybe I’m not a stranger. Maybe I’m just a traveler who hasn’t yet figured out where he belongs. But I say goodbye to the past, with a smile, because I know it will never truly let me go.