There is no feeling quite like it.

There is no feeling quite like it.
You have no place to stay, your nearest friend is a thousand miles away.
You are in a city you don’t know. It is late and all the cheap hotels are booked.
You are left facing a night on the streets.
You know you wont sleep much.
You’ll spend the night fearful of people, or the law, and thinking about how your life came to this.
It was supposed to be fun, wasn’t it?
Your bank account has nearly run dry.
And it is raining.
It cuts a groove in your personality, a welt of an experience that will heal over tomorrow when you board the 6am train and escape this madness.
But.
It will never fully heal.
You’ll feel it there sometimes.
A dull throb, not altogether numb.
A little painful.
And you’ll be reminded of those times that lightly litter the story of your existence.
Nights spent on the streets.
In various anonymous towns.
Invariably feeling sorry for yourself.
Always alone.
Wondering how you got there and quietly praying,
that when dawn light comes,
it will be the last time you ever have to face a night like that again.