I've been thinking, for quite a while, how my smile came back. When did it become so genuine? The last thing I remember clearly is the roof, the height, and the fear. The trembling of my own body, and whisper of the wind. Nothing more, nothing less. My mind was a mess. It's still kind of is, but not as much as it used to be. And I've been thinking, thinking for a while, what if I was the one being a liar? I've been lying to myself, saying I can't get any better, that things will always go downhill. Yet I'm still here. Smiling, breathing, living, growing up into someone. That someone sleeps and eats like a normal person. With no need to drink pills or bleed. With no feeling of guilt for existing. So maybe, I really was a liar. Maybe I was a caterpillar with no desire to get wings, with no wish to fly. The ground seemed safer, and being underneath seemed the safest. Wings seemed painful and heavy, like some kind of burden you can't get rid of once you accept it. They seemed too complicated to use, too hard to understand. So I kept refusing until numbers got me. I grew older, too old to hide under the table, with my ears covered. Too old to pretend nothing exists. So I let the world exist around me, and put my existence first.