A quiet day

It's 11:38pm. It's earlier than I usually begin writing. I think it's because I have an itch that I need to scratch. Most days I try and think up something I want to write about, I never really let myself go. Now, today it feels like a time that I can, really let go. I think it's because of how I am, that I do things. Things feel so strange to me, like I have a buffer between me and reality. That is why, my numbness feels almost alienating when I am doing my daily duties, at work, and at home. Maybe it is depression, I say. Other times, I think it's simply who I was born to be, completely numb, like a mummified corpse. A corpse that talks to people, as if it had nothing to say. I think that is why people enjoy my company, I have no real personality, they can just plaster whatever they wish I was onto my face and call me that. Sometimes I wish I did not have anything to say, or be, to simply exist and watch as things around me happen. Like a leaf floating in the wind, like the waves crashing upon shore, like a quiet lake. One day, without others, without the feeling of connection that binds me, I will be happy I think. I hope.