PERPLEXED

I was fifteen years of age when everything began. At first, it was fretfulness which brought forth shattering trust and after that doubt.

Life is not a luxurious situation, it is cliché but rather no one at any point said that it is hell hard to live. I recall the evenings, the limitless evenings, crying in the window of my room, taking a gander at the sky, sometimes and sometimes, looking into the window of the house at the back of my room whose glass was shaded mirror green demonstrating the impression of the street before my home. My home was not a tremendous house yet rather in the midst of my circumstance around then, it looked to me like a dull manor; a massive however grave castle.

What was that state? It appeared to me like it was not me or perhaps that was the real me. It was a condition of understanding myself who was I? Was it the individual who has no power over what so ever is going on to her? a person who in some cases didn't know why she is crying, a person who look at the sky and ponder was all this real. Or, on the other hand was it the individual who went to class each day, a person who laughed with others.

Should I continue this further??