Sometimes I listen to Vienna by Billy Joel over and over again, because I need to hear him say “slow down, you’re doing fine”.

Sometimes I try on all the clothes in my closet, imagining the days they could see.

Sometimes when my Dad leaves on business trips, I pretend that I’m living alone. Independent and self reliant, holding my own in a city which tries to take it. I do trivial things: I keep myself company while I make food and go shopping. It’s frightening how it can feel so empowering, and yet sometimes empty.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever had an original thought in my life, or if they’ve all been various combinations of the thoughts of those before me.

Sometimes I think my biggest flaw is that I like to think others don’t have any.

Sometimes I practice pessimism. I find that expecting the worst prevents disappointment. I can’t do it for long, though.

Sometimes I feel like a different person every day. Failing to grasp enough consistency in a world which requires constant adaptation.

Sometimes I feel that I’ve seen too much. My faith in humanity fraying with every murder, every rape. But I know I’ve seen nothing.

Sometimes I experience perfect happiness. That feeling which allows me to be oblivious. Not naive, though; I know that I have no business being happy in a world where the deaths of so many can be prevented with a few dollars. Sometimes, though, I let myself be really truly happy. Nothing can touch it. It’s lovely.