Sometimes it is just me.. I mean, that version of me that destroys everything she touches without any effort.
Sometimes it is me in my bedroom wondering how it all went from bad to incredibly worst in a second.
Sometimes I cannot find myself in this space or understand what this is all about.
That why sometimes all I can do is grab a book and try guessing what other people would do.
Sometimes I just read and then I sort of get why people react the way they do
Man, I'm not like that, there are not reasons behind me, there is not thread to hold it all together, it seems as if I were peaces of different people trying to function and failing at it.
Sometimes it just me being me and doing the only thing I know how to do properly: Living through the pages of whichever book I can have.