narcotics and books.

One thing struck me in particular this morning and that is the idea of comfort.

Last night, we went out to a small bar nearby and we sat and drank. We stared at people passing by, overheard a few conversations and openly laid out our feelings on the table. We laughed over little things, made the best of the night with a few jokes; we were catching up with not only each other but perhaps ourselves. We fed off each others thoughts and prayed that there was an answer somewhere amidst it all.

We made our way to a small family-owned restaurant nearby and tiredly plopped ourselves down with amazing food in front of us. We let the buzz take us through the night; we talked more passionately about everything we were uncertain of. We ate, talked, laughed, felt. We were blessed with a good night.

And then, morning came.
It struck me that last night was comforting. It wasn't about dressing up and impressing anyone. It wasn't about needing to hang out with a whole group of people in order to feel popular. It was about honesty, friendships, letting loose and knowing I'm not alone. Throughout the night I felt so many things. I liked how fast my heart was beating, it felt good to express bitterness, I laughed rather loudly and it hurt. I felt moments of confusion and despair, hopelessness followed by euphoria.
And throughout all of this, I knew I was never drunk. The alcohol wasn't what made me feel five things at once. It was only heightened.

And because of last night, I knew nights like those are what I need to remember that I'm still living. That I'm very much alive and feeling. That I'm fucking living my life the way I want to. And you know, I think that's comfort.