Dancer in the Dark

I feel like a sick pervert, who encourages people to talk about themselves, by pushing some simple buttons.

I feel fake.

I feel like I am caught up in a loop, never ending, always returning to this very same Sunday morning, where the only thing I do is write, write, write.

I get weird ideas, I feel oddly at peace, yet when talking to other people, I feel so very fake.

I feel Christmas.

The weather is windy, the sun is shining, yet I feel not confined, but somehow restricted to myself.

I feel like I am pacing impatiently in my cage, knowing I could break out, wondering what I am still waiting for.

Am I hesitating?