Funny how I'm all alone, yet they are all together. I am an involuntary solitary. My friends? They don't know the real me. I try, I really do, to let myself be known to them, but, all in vain. Just a slight revealing makes them distant and ignorant. All in all, my "friends" are not my real friends, since they know me not. Thinking truthfully, I'd rather them not know who I am. I am a failed writer, a philosopher - a thinker. I am not nearly as what I ought to be. I never finish any projects. I fancy myself smart, yet I feel like a fail class compared to those who truly are smart by nature. I am confused. I am alone.
There is a party upstairs. All I hear are people laughing and talking, loudly. I think back at all the opportunities I had to be like one of those people who enjoy life and then I regret not making friends with the popular crowd, not accepting to hang out with them or go to parties with them simply because I thought I was above them. Am I? Let's see: They have fun, they are faithful friends, they enjoy life; I, on the other hand, don't have fun, do not have loyal friends, and I do not enjoy life. Who's winning here? The "philosophical writer" or the popular air-head? I think we all came to the same conclusion here. Lonely bitter me has achieved nothing in this miserable life, while they have achieved life and friendship. The party is upstairs; I am downstairs.
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