You fight and you fight and you fight to be broken.
Your body tumbles over the pressure.
The over is never over but we hope it gets better.
We cling to the idea that we become stronger.
"These strange markings are not bad," we say and we can never decide wether that is true or we're just saying it to comfort ourselves.
We're stuck.
We rethink.
And in the end we run.
We run away from our problems and responsibilities because we can. We do, and we try to find our purpose.
Our purpose in life, and in love.
We find ourselves at the edge of the world still fading out of reality because nothing cures a broken existence.
Not even a city.