Not Done

I have lived with myself for seventeen years now. I've had my ups and downs. I sleep and wake and live my life like most people do. I embody everything mundane and everyday and mediocre.

I don't like it though. There's something about the thought that makes me recoil inwardly with revulsion. And yet where would the world be without the nameless, faceless masses? If I hate the masses so much, do I expect the masses to hate themselves and live with it? Am I to live with the thought that I am the exception, that what applies to them doesn't apply to me?

I have always been alone. And different. Indifferent to the fact. Not completely, though. At the back of my mind there's a little nagging thought that I should pay a bit more attention to the people around me instead of being so engrossed with myself. But usually I ignore that feeling.

Come to think of it, there are many things I ignore. Because it's often easier to leave things out of your mind and distract yourself with other, less troublesome things.

I am alive. For now, I'll leave it at that. I'm recovering from whatever it is I'm afflicted with and I'm taking my recovery one day at a time.