I am in a place I'd never been, tired as hell, and I still can't get out of bed. It is lunchtime where I'm from, but not here, not where the buildings hug the center of where I am, where I am pocket-sized and fragile.
Instead of preparing for "professional activities," I am thinking about boys and being rejected by them. Each little heartache is a reminder that I believe lies too easily. I thought of my self-pity and looked out of my hotel room window at some birds. They aren't pathetic. Perhaps they don't ever feel sorry for themselves. I'm a weighted, flightless bird (or broad, or dame, or girl) who can't help but get in my own way.
The light found meaning in my path just then, and I'm reminded that it is still morning here. While hope is futile and fickle and only latches on when it wants something, light is eternal and judgment-free. It framed some perfect wisdom about having feelings I no longer want to have.