This is not real life.

I vaguely wonder to myself whether or not anything holds any true existence. Is it all just random? I don’t think I agree. But, then again, I can’t be certain of myself.

I’m a self-made invention. I can be who I want to be, and there isn’t much more I care about. I’m a product of my influences. I have never cared much for anything and I’m afraid of people. The most glamorous thing about life is that you can choose to be an observer or to be the observed. I chose to be observed. I am the silent friend in your group, the beautiful accessory of dark coldness that you have all chosen. You feel that you have all excelled because of my silent presence, my acceptation, as though this means you all know me personally. But truthfully, no one can look into me. And truthfully, I don’t care as long as people find me interesting. The people that exist around me are all watching me, looking for something in my reactions or my feeling. At some point they will realise that I am only a ghost, an idea of a person. To them that makes me all the more interesting.