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It's hot, but not as hot as it could be, and certainly not as hot as it was. I did something wrong and ended up where I am, which is not as far away from myself as I used to be, but not as close as I would like to be either.

I have come to a realization, that I like myself. The only problem is that I am not really who I am. Does that make any sense? Of course it doesn't, since things rarely do. But I read something in a book today about a girl who felt like her own reflection, following herself, trying to keep perfectly aligned with what she is, staring and watching and not knowing why she is doing anything at all. Except lately I have been so lazy. I am staring up at myself in amusement over the edge of my book, sitting cross-legged on the floor, as she bounces up and down, waving her arms in the air.

If I was trully that person, then it wouldn't be hard to be like them. I simply would. I am what I am and I am certainly ashamed, but it is my shame, and I feel a certain possessiveness over it. It is me. Like me or hate me, I don't care. Chances are though, you don't care either. You are bored, and obviously can't be doing anything exciting if you are reading my journal.

I am the happiest person you will ever meet. I am the saddest person you will ever meet. I am neither of these. I can see, I can move. It's nice to meet you.