There I make an observation of my perception against others'. (my perception of others' perception). And I realize, I live my life trough my own narrator and commenting. As if the outside was just a narrative element to guide my thoughts, a mere decoration. I kind of realized that is what makes me not be able to live "at the moment".

Then I start thinking about shutting down that looking glass and living reality.

I get distracted by another thought.

My fantasies have changed with time. They used to be epic stories about ancient wizards who fought complicated evil beings who became more redeemable and real with time. Until they were just wizards having complex lives. Then it became more about imaginary scenarios for a real universe, but fictitious lives, full of love, hate, adventure and wonder.

Then the characters started having romantic interests. And everything went downhill. No more complex stories, no more strong independent characters, only whimpy romantics who would be tore apart by some ridiculous urban poem. P a t h e t i c.

Knowing I was living life trough imagination and having found the transfiguration suffered by my imagination disgusted me.

Then for some reason I can't really explain...>.> I had some sort of epiphany.

I don't belong, and actually I will never belong to some broken social scene of post-modern indie decadence. The sole fact I give it nomenclature makes me an unlikely candidate. I will never belong either to the post-punk creative scene, I lack the cool and the guts. And I won't be part of the stereotypic circus fauna. So where will I belong? Where can a 4-deviation individual belong?

"I admit here's not my endemic niche"

"Good question"

"Yep...

Is it like that in the future?