Probably one of the worst things in life is waking up in the middle of the night and forcing yourself to fall asleep. But you can’t, of course or I wouldn’t be writing about this.

It’s my fault I took a midnight stroll alone. It’s (most likely) also my fault that I picked up the baggage you left eons ago. It would probably unfair to ask you to carry it with me back to where you left it. (Does it even work that way?)

Maybe I’ve already created my life through labels. Midnight vagabond, is it? It’s as if my brain’s taunting me: how about we let your mind wander in places no one else can reach? But then again, my own mind is my dwelling place. Because really, aren’t we always alone in our own thoughts?