Tokyo Ueno Station

But then what of me remains here?

A sense of tiredness.

I was always tired.

There was never a time I was not tired.

Not when life had its claws in me, and not when I escaped from it.

I did not live with intent, I only lived.

Time had passed, things had moved on, yet events I should have forgotten soon after they happened stayed with me, trailing behind me. . . .

It wasn’t that I wanted to die; it was just that I was tired of trying.