I don’t really want to be doing this, and if I could stop writing this very second I would.

It started like this:
I was the kid with a grey hoodie slamming the door at midnight. My mandatory seat in class was near the entrance because I was always late, and it took 4 months for my classmates to learn my name.
I was the kid climbing up the roof to smoke the mess away, and I was the one who never wanted to come down. There are all sorts of ways to study, and I never found the answers in the system of 9-5 with grades, and it never did me any good
because what made me open my eyes every morning to the sound of heavy rain against the concrete was not the thought of a future with grades or scholarships, reputations and educations and exceptional behavior to fit my salary.

I was the kid with a grey hoodie slamming the door at midnight to walk on empty streets until the sun woke up, and I was not alone. I spent my days so goddamn lonely around those constant talking people, but at night, as I walked on empty streets, I was not alone. I walked with the heroes of my world — with the writers and singers and talkers and thinkers, and I got them. I understood them, and I had the same song on repeat for nights because each note he took assured me that I was not alone. Someone out there knew and understood and got it, and that was enough to keep those legs walking, keep this voice training, keep my fingers typing. Because one day, maybe one day, if I learned how to write clear enough, sing loud enough, be strong enough, I could explain myself in a way that made sense; and then, maybe one day, one day, someone out there would hear and recognize her or himself, and I could let them know that they are not alone. Just like that song I had on repeat for several nights as I walked lonely on empty streets let me know that I was not
alone
and that’s how it starts.

So there are days I don’t want to be doing this
and the knife is beautifully sharp and my room is clean and the bottles emptied and I have nothing left to give.
But then a clear spark from the edge of the knife and I realize that someone out there might feel exactly what I feel this very damned second
and she might hold that knife
on the floor in the corner
pressed closed to the wall
and in the flicker of an eye I throw the gun and hide the knife and run to type this because I need you to know that
you
are
not
alone
and I’m still practicing hard to learn these words
and I spend my nights rearranging them, decorating them
to maybe one day write well enough to make sense of myself
and sing loud enough to explain
myself
but for what it’s worth with this messy way of language I’m holding
today:
YOU
ARE
NOT
ALONE

When the others were picked up and walked home by friends or fathers or best friend’s sisters
I was the kid in a grey hoodie, walking with the poets, the singers, the thinkers, and I was not alone.

Charlotte Eriksson, The Glass Child, is a writer and songwriter from Sweden, currently living wherever the wind takes her. She is the author of Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps, telling the story about how she left everything she had and knew to dedicate her life to her music. She has produced and released 5 records, and her new album I Must Be Gone and Live, or Stay and Die is out worldwide October 21. Find out more about her life and music on her website TheGlassChildOfficial.com, or visit her online via Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, or YouTube.