Writing down thoughts. Because I have all the time in the world in my hand.

Feeling low for not belonging to any group of people in the society.

Floating. Mid air. 

Like a ghost with no directions.

Living like a ghost. 

Surprised that she's still able to think of such an irony (while writing the previous sentence she was momentarily proud of herself actually). 

These days,

she wasted her life on different couches, switching channels, eating chemically formed food.

She felt useless.

She changed the channel and Anastasia was on.

And she felt like a kid again.

The cycle went on and on.

And on.