A/N: Jack Savoretti – Breaking The Rules inspired me a lot, beautiful as it is. I own nothing. Thank you if you read this!


Every corner feels the same. They smell like gasoline and the small, dirty motels. Their skies are colored with gray and smoke, the stinking dust in the air and climbing up your nostrils makes you shudder just when looking at it. Watching the chimneys send more gray into the sky and the doors kept closed – sitting on your borrowed bed and shivering just because you can. Just because you can't.

It doesn't make you feel any less yourself; it only makes it both too real and too surreal at the same time. Everything is here, right now, but you can't forget and you can't forgive. You stare at the stained ceiling, at the dead walls, and wonder why you don't have a home. And then you remember (it all) and almost smile.

Every corner in that motel room makes you wanna hide, press your back against the depth of the corner and let your knees wobble. But you just grab your things and go take a shower, dress yourself, bring someone home, undress yourself. Because it's the closest thing to a home and it doesn't feel like anything at all.

You feel so old you can't breathe, because it seems like every breath gives you years and years. And the wrinkles around your eyes from all the worry and exhaustion seem to deepen and they take their toll on you when you least expect it. Because what the hell, it feels like that all of the time, but it still makes you jump in surprise when it's the worst of all the nights. And those nights come more and more often, and nowadays it's almost once a week. And it still is a surprise, every time.

What can you do, really? You aren't alone but you sure as hell feel like it. You are a scared child and a tired old man in the same body at the same time and whenever you are a big brother, you feel like a dad, like a friend, like an enemy. Most of all you are a brake, you're an anchor and you drag him down with you.

These kinds of thought aren't realistic and you know it. It's stupid and you know it. Most of the time, anyway.

And again and again it's like drowning and taking too much air in and it's waves of dizziness and blacking out and it's just nothing and you can't believe how much you fool yourself with these thoughts of hurting. Nothing really is wrong, because it's the life you live and you have to get used to it like everyone else has. Like dad. Like all the old men and small children who died and failed to protect the ones they loved.

It all feels too much.

But you have already been in every corner in every one of these rooms, and right now you know a one thing for sure. You are here and you can't hide – even if you can't see yourself right (which you don't know for sure, it's just all so wrong), there is someone who sees you and stays with you, at least for a one more day and that's enough. Because what more can you really ask, what more are you worth?

So you stand up and grab your stuff once again, take a shower and dress yourself. And you kiss goodbye to every hiding corner of that room and stand in the middle of it all, taking it all in. And you wait for that someone to come back with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a smile with dimples and you smile too, opening the door to the road and closing out the corners and the walls that someday may tumble down, but today is not that day.