I’m gonna be honest

I don't know what I'm doing.

I'm laying in bed, writing on my phone

but it all seems fake; a glorious oversimplification of life

none of it seems real

Except, maybe, this.

Unsure, I second guess every step

every sentence stem

every choice in plot.

The one thing I do know is that I love stories.

While writing I think of myths from long ago. I wonder what happened to the mermaid cursed to roam the sea or the daughter who lost everything. I wonder if I'm the villain. I think I wouldn't mind it. There's a sense of freedom to the notion of doing what you want, but I'm not. I'm still that shy little thing that can't stand up for itself. I'm the weird little miscreant; the one everyone likes. I'm always laughing while dying on the inside, hoping someone sees the mask, wanting someone to notice I'm in pain but not daring to break the mold.