And here I am again, taking full swing into sentimentalism and emotional crisis. On the visible level there is no reason for it. If you scratch under the surface there are plenty of small reasons to be uncomfortable in my skin. One by one these reasons may seem insignificant, just like each puzzle piece alone doesn't show you the whole picture. I've realised, the longer I live the sorer my soul becomes. People closest to me say I'm an idealist, too honest for the ways of this world. Couldn't agree more. The truth is I am not adapted for life on this planet. I'm a lousy liar, too compassionate, too empathetic. Worse than that, I don't know how to become tougher and insensitive. I am a misplaced object that doesn't know where it really belongs.
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