When you get down to thinking about who you really are, that's when things hurt the most. Modesty is just a mask, we say we're no better than the rest of the world, but we're always hoping and wanting to be. That's our cry, our one desire, to be better, to be a difference. Isn't it always like that? Isn't that why rejection is swift and painful, not sometimes but always?

So now you ask me, who do I think I am? I can't answer you simply because I don't know. But who do you think you are, to question my being. I am not god, I do not have all the answers. So I guess I'm whatever you want me to be, it's your mind, not mine. I guess I'm guilt ridden, from making your life hard. I have no excuse, my bad is all I can say. But even the sharpest of lives are left in the dust. Like death is unavoidable, I can't please everyone every time. But on my part I may not be trying hard enough. I admit, there's somethings I need to figure out, but there's also a world of things I'd rather do without. I've figured on not figuring myself out for now. Maybe one day it'll blow up in my face, and I'll be stuck piecing myself together alone.

For now, you'll ask me "why" and I'll reply you with a "how". Tell me how you feel, and maybe I'd understand, or fake it as best as I can. The irony is killing me, if you're in no mood, then what am I? The world's always harder on you isn't it? Cause apparently you're the only one that feels around here.

You should realise, that it's hard to keep a straight face all the time. Cause I'm the fortress, all brawn no brain? Too cold to feel i guess. I just wish you'd see, how you're always waging wars on yourself, on everyone. For now, I'll sleep my way out of this one.