In all honesty it’s hard work – people entrusting you with their secrets, their stuff.

To be somewhat of an emotional sponge, a springboard to bounce ideas of, all of it.

Some days, it’s humbling to know that people feel comfortable enough to share their innermost with you. Others, you can’t wait to be alone so you can slump into a coma that is your own solitude.

Draining. Your mind is constantly being flooded with thoughts, scenarios, possibilities of what decisions that others should.would.could make - not to mention your own. This can be helpful, don’t get me wrong. To be lost in the problems of someone else, is easier than tackling the labyrinth of troubles you call your own.

And then there are times where you want nothing more than to unload, what seems like a mere fraction of your worries, onto someone else.

It’s hard for people to read you – and therefore transitively hard to console as well.

You want to say, I’m just like you, you really do. But you know in your bones that’s not particularly true.

Whatever it is you’re feeling, you know it will pass, you will pull through – most likely without the help of anyone but yourself.

Just know you are not alone.

And if we ever shall meet, we’ll sit alone in silence.