Considering I'm not even sure if that happened. What I wrote about. I can't be sure. How could I ever be? But I can't complain too much. I've got it good for someone who runs. Nobody has robbed me, I still have some spare clothes and I never get too hungry. I haven't even had any run ins with... his people. The need to keep moving is getting less and less urgent. I feel like I'm... moving towards something. Maybe it's just me being crazy. The whole world seems crazy to me. Why should I be any different?
I keep on seeing that kid when I go to sleep. I see me shove him back, and I scream out, I shout, reaching out a hand to yank him back from the curb, but my see-through, static-y hand can't do anything, and I can only watch his broken body fly through the fucking air, leaving a trail of depressing red as it goes.
It's like a loop. Wake up, keep moving, go to sleep, angst about someone who probably had a death wish anyways. That's my state of the world right now; live on, while feeling guilty about things I probably couldn't help. That's been what I've done this whole time. I just sit here, having it better than anyone else, but not trying to help. I never do. I never have. It feels dumb to feel bad about it now. Like, what could I ever fucking change about the past? what's the point? But every night, the same dream waits for me, like I've been infected by some kind of virus. The fact that it's summer only makes it worse. Then it laughs at me, the haze of the heat in the dream(?), as if to say "This is the real thing!". I keep on hearing his scream as he got hit.
This is why I've always hated the summer...
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