Prose written on the train.

When you’re sitting on a train you think you’re the only person alive. You look around at everyone else on the stage and realize that they are all in fact real people, and you’re the one that is fake. It’s an odd feeling, not feeling like you’re real. That’s how I feel, often. I feel like I’m not real, I feel like I’m a fake. Like I’m just pretending to be Evrim, like I’m just pretending to live, and I’m fooling everyone else around me really well. It’s an odd feeling, indeed.

Like do the people around me think that I’m alive? Do they think that I’m real? Or do they think that I’m not real either, absorbed in their own lives. Am I just a puppet, that moves, and pretends to live. Or am I a problemed young woman that deserves to live.