You're sitting on the couch of somebody else's home. Everything is perfect and clean as far as the eye can see. You can still smell the maple syrup from the perfect family breakfast that you attended but weren't a part of.
If you look closely, you can see tiny little bugs crawling on the bathroom floor. Moving left and right in no real direction. You wonder if they know where they're going. Or maybe they're just moving for the sake of moving. Sound familiar?
This. This quaint tropical house amongst a neighborhood of close-but-no-cigar repeats. Scribbling in your messy scrawl in this practically new notebook. Reading your favorite book again instead of having a real conversation. This absolute nothing-ness. This is as close to home as you've gotten in a long time.
Which isn't say much because this? This isn't even real. You're just a show for these people. Alive, but detached. They don't care what you do. You're content to stay locked inside your head. Your fantasies, your dreams. Waxing philisophical for an audience of one. It makes you feel insane. Like you should be locked away. You like it.
If you think hard enough, you'd probably say school is your home. There, you have complete control over everyone around you. Say the word, and they come tripping over themselves to serve you. Even the ones that hate you, they are playing exactly the role you want them to. You're the director and the writer and the producer and the star, all rolled into one self-absorbed waste of space.
If you think hard enough, you'd say that something might be a little wrong with you. Just something. The tiniest crack or loose bolt that causes the whole to self-destruct at the most inoppurtune moment. (Or the most oppurtune, depending on how you look at it.) This is only if you think hard enough. But watch yourself, think too hard and you'll see how shallow this whole thing really is.
But this whole thing, I mean your life. By shallow, I mean meaningless. (By hello, I mean save me. By goodbye, I mean fuck you.)
Oh dear, I've lost the perspective. This is starting to sound too much like something you've already seen, already heard. Your whole life is one big 'been there, done that'. Except less clever, more ridiculous.
You say, "These things always happen to me."
You say, "Suck it up, princess. This is the real world."
You say, "Shut up both of you, just let me leave."
You say, "It's not that easy."
You're talking to strangers in your head. Desperately hoping something is wrong with you. Just so you can have a reason to be this way. But you're fine, well as fine as you can be while you're still trapped in that skin. You have no excuses. You can't blame your asshole father, your dissapearing mother, your invisible friends, your non-existent God.
You've got nothing to show for fourteen years of tears, laughs and headaches. Just you fat, ugly body. Your ripped jeans. Your stupid hair. Your hypocritical face. Your day-dreams and tear tracks.
Well, at least you've got something. Could be worse.
Reading this over you think, spoke too soon.