I’d been there before, I could recognize the signs. I was turning into a wild, reckless mess again, wandering around aimlessly in search of something to preoccupy me. I became moody when I didn’t have something to keep me busy. I began to feel those old pangs again.

I was like the last one at a party, constantly chasing a high when everyone’s gone home already. Sometimes I think I’m damaging myself. Sometimes I think, to hell with it, you’re only young and wild once. And then I think, stop, just stop. Before you get to the point you can’t come back from.

All the while, you go on date after date, smiling, nodding, asking well-thought out questions, but the feeling that you are horribly lonely hovers there perpetually. You talk about inane things, listen to meaningless chatter about someone’s favourite food and pretend to be interested, and you think to yourself that you will never do this again. But you do. You do it again, and again, and again, to the point where it all becomes a carousel of faces and names, and you can’t keep track of them anymore.


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