He does not bark, and he knows the secrets of the deep

I'm not sure that I know how to be alone with myself anymore. I mean, I do, and I always have, but it's getting increasingly harder. I want to be alone all the time but when I am alone I don't want it anymore. The terrifying intimacy with a crowd of strangers unknown to you. I guess the city changes faster than the human heart. 

There have been moments where I wait until I can be completely alone, and in that silence I cry. It's almost as if I can't stop, that if something or some thought didn't stop me I would cry forever until my body became some dry, waterless husk. I cry about everything and nothing in particular. 

The thing they don't tell you about becoming more independent is that you have to actually face yourself. You have to know your eccentricities and particularities and when that becomes too much, the release just pours back into you, like how every time the tide goes out, it must come back in because it has nowhere else to go. 

On the other hand, I don't worry about myself often enough. I've gotten comfortable and when I get comfortable I worry about every person in my life and that's worse than being alone with yourself because the feelings that you allow to latch onto you are agonizing. You try to fix someone else's falling apart and the more pieces you hold up, the more it turns into ruins. You make it worse by pretending it's yourself. 

I wish it was simpler. I wish I could practice empathy less dangerously. I wish I could find the reason why I cry. 

You can swim in the crowd and its peculiarities, but at the end of the day everyone always goes home to an empty apartment.