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Chapter 1

At times I've wondered what it was like to feel content. To just be present, to just be you. These wonders wouldn't linger, but they were frequent. On many occasions I'd catch myself struck by that longing to just, know. Such a foreign feeling, almost alien to me. I wish I could tell you. Hell, I wish you could tell me. But we'd live in a perfect world if we could all swap our brains at will.

I looked at these people, these parents and teachers and cousins and strangers, and I wondered how they did it. How they were so comfortable with just, existing. Being themselves wasn't a fight, or a secret to be hidden, or something that always needed explaining. I both admired and envied that gift of simplicity.

Of course I'm biased, I can only speak for myself, and I'm sure these people have their own set of problems just like the rest of the world. After all, humans are prone to imperfections. However, it seemed as if I effortlessly acquired them. Like collecting stamps, each year I'd develop another reason why I'd never be desired.

Call me pessimistic, a drama queen, and so on. And maybe that's true, I don't doubt you're probably right. But that's my reality, no matter how warped or depressive you might find it.