Books remind me of long forgotten people. Their memory's live on in my head.
The moon always listened to me, when nobody did As I bellowed alone in my room The moon comforted me, when nobody understood me The moon did.
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To why, I ask myself Have I become such a behemoth
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I believe that I am a good human. What in particular is a good human?
Life is meaningless. I think to myself, But at the same time I enjoy life. Am I even allowed to enjoy life If I have such disgraceful beliefs?
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Humans fascinate me. The way the human mind works, The way humans act around other humans, The way all humans are different, But why do I speak of humans in such manner? Almost like I would not be human.
As years flew by, I came to the conclusion, that no one understands me. No one will ever understand me , I am not devastated by this statement, but I am rather disenchanted by it. As I am alone In my head.
