If you were hoping I would at least write something happy this time, you should have known it is never my forte.

      She woke up at 6.05 and checked her phone. Nope. No messages. She retreated back to her sleep and woke up again at 8.50. She woke up to an empty feeling and it was Saturday morning. The story of her life. To avoid from weeping the morning away, she grabbed her novel from beside her bed, hoping it could be a distraction. To her luck, she’d stopped at the page where all the sad plots are taking place. Great. She resumed reading anyway, and continued on reading as she followed the story, every words reminding her of herself. She was surprised about how alike she was to the character of the novel. So much for not weeping the morning away, she thought, as tears dribbled down her cheeks. S
     There she was, sitting on her bed, typing on her laptop. the curtains still closed, not wanting the rays of sun to invade and destroy her dark surroundings. She figured it suited her mood at the moment; dark and empty. As thoughts swirled in her mind, she began to realise, sadly, that she had gotten very used to weary mornings. She was left then, with one thought that seemed to stay longer than the other; Why couldn’t she just be happy?

I always thought that my being so fucking insecure all the time was only a phase. That I would get over it in a matter of time. I thought wrong. Once again, I felt alone and lost in the presence of a crowd of friends. I am a misfit, always have been. I never really stand in any groups or categories, though I would let them influence me for a while, but I always go home to myself once I'm alone, when there's no one whose mind I could clone. It sounds so very intriguing, being different. But you will never appreciate normality until you've experienced how dreading being different felt like. But then again, what is normal anyway?