People

People are never like what you read about in books. Even though you are the main character of your life, no one is watching you move across the room. No one out of all those that you know will be able to define the way your clothes look on you. Or the fact that you wear the best of them with resigned disdain.

I wonder why we script our escape routes this way. Tv shows, books and films. One escapes into them but hasn't really managed because they always resemble the reality of your life and yet are so startlingly different you get confused looking to see where it all fits.

There's a woman I know. She has cheap shoes and chipped nail paint. I squirmed within myself when i noticed that. As always, its not that the person making such observations has more expensive shoes. It becomes a sort of game - one upmanship. There's another woman, who has a sort of maniacal laughter. Pretty, with a maniacal laugh. But once again, I mean, I barely laugh myself and when I do I shut my eyes, as if not to have to witness the expression of disbelief and discomfort on other people's faces whose laughter is just laughter and not something wrenched from turmoil filled reservoirs somewhere deep within.