A human is one of the most common complex beings I have ever encountered. And yet, I feel like I'm not one, but I am...its intriguing, and confusing. 

We're full of intricacies, secrets, lies, beauty, despair etc etc. So similar and different at the same time. 

I can't get my head around it sometimes. 

But one thing I think about is that I'm not one of them. I know I am, but I don't want to be, and I struggle with seeing the truth that I am human sometimes, that I'm me. 

I looked in the mirror and the person looking back, she wasn't me, I don't know who she is at times. Someone being loud and charming, other times, quiet, caring and contemplating life and its meaning 

Who am I? I feel like I'm in a unsteady dream and I can't, and sometimes don't, want to come back to the real world. But I can't always see reality either, and I question if I am real, if everything is real. 

Walking helps, it brings me back. Flowers and reading too somehow. 

I'm rambling, hopefully someone else can relate.