Today someone told me that I looked like I belonged in a TV show where people in long trenchcoats dashed across the streets of the city in order to fight crime.
And I smiled for a moment.
That moment was precious- vastly, insurmountablly short.
In that moment, I indulged myself.
I was a hero.
I saved the lives of ordinary people, caught the serial killer, and won over the front page of newspapers as a real life Sherlock Holmes.
Under street lights, blank skies, and muffled cars
was the sound of flipping papers, murmurs of voices, an ongoing chase to save the life of a child.
I was respected for my skills, I saved the government from a bombing, I stopped what would've been another 9/11.
For once, I belonged somewhere.
I was able to do things.
I was able to help someone other than myself.
There was nowhere else to long for.
I had my own story, a reason to live another day, a future I knew I could look forward to.
My life was put together in it's own insane, impossible way, but it was together.
There were no existential crises, no questioning if I was really doing the right thing.
Nothing, but following the path laid out for me from the script of fate produced by the earth.
And I was happy.
But all things must come to an end.
And then I saw myself again.