He had been searching for a certain date he needed to complete his cv and somwhere along the way he got lost in old blog postings from many years ago.
How different his writing style had been, he thought, way more.. authentic. The diary kind of post with lots of personal feelings and wishes and thoughts about what he had experienced and less formal, less ambigous. It's not like they were easier times but he seemed to have lost the ability to describe what was going on with his life. His writing senses had grown dull or so it seems.
With a soft smile now and then he skipped through the postings, the kind sweetness of the rasberries he ate a few minutes ago still lingered on his tongue, softening the slightly bitter taste of remembering places and faces and voices of things long gone. A melancholic melody in his heart, his head, his fingertips - he did not wish to go back, he was in a different place now, not entirely better, but different enough to cherish the experiences he had made along the way. He was still making everyday, trying to figure out this thing called life.
Even though he had achieved many things so far, there were still many many moments where he wasn't able to outgrow himself, where he was stuck inside his nightmare of a head. Just the other day he had felt and acted so textbook-typical like someone with his illness. Irrational, impulsive, inappropriately intense. Luckily, nobody was involved and noone got hurt, noone but himself, mentally, that is.
He could still feel his fingers typing "it hasn't even rained here, yet", letter by letter, each dampening his enthusiasm to contribute to the conversation going on. Letter by letter his finger grew heavier and heavier until he couldn't move them anymore. Why even bother? It's not like anyones interested in what he has to say anyway. It's not like HE is interested in what he has to say. It doesn't matter wether he answers or not. Maybe the question wasn't even directed at him and it would not only be futile to answer, but awkward, too? He'd.. he'd better not.
His eyes were still directed at the chat on his phone, but he couldn't see the letters disappearing anymore, one by one erased by the merciless backspace key weighted down by his thumb. It didn't matter. Nobody would miss his answer. Nobody would ask. It was okay.
With a sigh he pulled himself back from his daydream and adverted his eyes back to the screen of his laptop which illuminated his stale face with a lifeless, neverchanging light. Back to his past and the evernagging feeling that he didn't matter. That he never had mattered in the first place. Not back then and not now.
Never.
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