Still alive? Might as well be, what else do we have to do?
Home. No matter what, it always will be. It's not where I belong, and it never will be. It's good to be back, and it's a little difficult; familiar, yet disconcerting.
The people here who know me, they know me. There's no chance to trick them, no identity I can impress upon them. They have seen me from the start, they have been a part of my creation, my shaping.
I can't be anyone else to them, which is why I had to leave, which is why I can never return, not for long. But I don't have to try to impress them, either. I don't have to live up to anything, I don't have to be anything than the goofy bastard they've always known.
I don't have to be strong, or smart. I don't have to be the clever guy with all the jokes.
They know better than to depend on me, or expect from me. They are the ones who know I am a failure, and accept it. Because that is all they have ever known, all that I have ever shown them, all I ever will.
I hate this place, and I love it. Because this is where truth lurks.
But sometimes the truth is okay. Sometimes, the truth is your nephew's sincere hug, or your sister making a joke that only the two of you could understand, or the stars shining down on you in a silence unbroken by the city.
Sometimes, the truth is all you need, no matter that some of it may hurt.