why do i worry so much about my future. why do i worry so much about what has already passed. why is it so easy to live anywhere but the present.

what is time anyway and why do we rely on it as a solution.

it is fickle.



i am fickle.



i often wonder if you know how much i lie. it’s compulsive, really.

sometimes i fear that people can read my thoughts. i don’t want them to.

(thoughts are a very private matter, you see.)



why does life seem so much more complicated when we are alone. it has webs and layers and endless turns.

but in company, it is blank.



look at your reflection in the mirror until you begin to wonder about your face.



why is it that i look like whoever i happen to be standing next to at the moment.

is this is why you never notice me.



why is it that the world seems to be going on behind a glass wall. why is it that i can do nothing but look in on it.



my imperfections are right in front of your eyes. my perfections don’t exist in this world.



my favorite part of life is the butterflies and weak knees

and i know the clichés must come from somewhere.