Quiet. It's always quiet around me. Almost always. And in my head, too, it's usually quiet. It's not because it's empty, just my thoughts are quiet. There are only lyrics of my songs. That's all I have. Plus an old guitar and a bag with a spare t-shirt, jeans and very old Converse.
Now I'm sitting on the cold stone watching the sunrise. The sun hasn't risen yet, but I'm already up. I go to bed late at night and get up even before the dawn. I sleep for about four hours, but it's enough for me. I don't care that people can see shadows under my eyes, that my skin is sickly pale. I will sleep when I die, so now I should stay awake. I will have all the time in the world to sleep, once I kick the bucket. Besides, I have nowhere to rush to, right? No one is waiting for me anyway. Neither parents nor friends. Yep, I don't even have friends. Used to have. I even had best friends. Three. One girl I knew since childhood, we loved to play cards betting toffees. Then she had found herself a boyfriend and forgot about me. The second one. Well, we just grew apart and all, and then just went our separate ways. The third one... She was something. She didn't like that I refused to go shopping with her and stayed at home to write songs. She got jealous of me because of my guitar. So, the third girl left, just like the first and the second. Fancy that, living almost on the streets at 19. Yep, awesome! I wonder if mom's waiting at home?
Maybe, the problem is in me? Why was I left all alone? Maybe everyone think that I'm an outcast? As far as I remember, no one ever thought I was one. I was never in the "First beauty of the city" list either, but I never needed it anyway. I don't consider myself a beauty. What's so attractive in me: short, black-haired, hair hanging a little below shoulders, light brown eyes, that is the sun they look transparent, thin nose... The only thing that I ever loved about myself were my lips. Mom was always telling me that I have very beautiful lips. Seemed as if someone had painted them. Some kid drew two very wavy lines. And I love my guitar. It's almost always with me, swung behind my back... I write songs, sing and play them. I go to the transition in the evening, sit on the cold floor and start to play. I never get a lot of money, but always enough to buy bread and water.
The sun in Busan is just starting to appear above the rooftops. April in Korea isn't really warm. Especially in the morning. April. My mother always loved everything about April, I never understood why though. This obsession affected me too - she named me Sawol. Time of year. Sawol - April. Nothing special.
My world revolves around my rare thoughts about where to find a place to sleep or a place to wash my hair. Since recently, tears became my constant companion. I hate them. I don't like to show my weaknesses. I had showed too much of it when I was a kid.
Sawol met sunrise with a new portion of tears. Why they exist? For what? It's not like they help anything...
She already knew how her day will go. In the morning, she'll go to meet a few guys she knew under the big bridge to warm up a little. Then she'll spend the whole day sitting at some bus stop composing new song or she'll try to go to the bathroom at some random store to at least wash her face. And in the evening, it'll be either some transition again or she will just prop some random street wall with her back and play her heart out. Not for people, but for herself. People don't care about your feelings. For them, you're just another homeless, a tramp - that's all. For them, you don't have a story. For them, you're nobody. And it's a good luck, if someone throws maybe 10000₩ in her guitar case. And in the night she'll run from car to car parked at open parking lots just to find a place to sleep. And the next morning, she'll once again sit on the cold stone and watch sunrise. Just as warm as her mom's hands.

In this head my thoughts are deep, 
But sometimes I can't even speak, 
Would someone be and not pretend? 
I'm off again in My World. ©