there are days when i see the people i love (it seems strange that i do love) pursuing their dreams, living life, and i am only amused. i am not envious that they are real and that i am an outsider, that i can see wonderful things and not desire them for myself.

but deeply i long to be; i want to paint my own story and conduct my own existence. i find it hardly satisfying to be the perpetual observer and never the actor.

still, i do find enjoyment in the way i exist. drawing conclusions, forming ideas with no practical reality to which i can apply them - life is rather amusing to one outside. and, from what i have seen, i think i prefer my own world.