I am out of touch with reality. I have come to the conclusion that it bores me. I comfort myself with literary genius. It's not just the smell of books that is invigorating. But the adventure, the imagery, the mystic, the excitement that isn't found in today's mundane society. Music eithers calms me down or pumps me up. The jangly guitar, the ethereal vocals, the ambient soundscapes. My imagination sometimes spills onto paper. Onto word. It liberates me. Yet hinders my progress. I make friends easily, but only if you approach me first. My anxiety is always there. Tucked in the back of my mind, always appearing when it feels most convenient for itself. Never for me. I am nervous, impulsive, stable, daydreamer, creative, realistic, curious, uninterested. I am a walking paradox. But I can cope with that. It doesn't define me, yet it sums me up perfectly.