I feel so alien to my life.

I look around my room and take in the familary from a distance. What is so distinctly mine takes on a shimmer of splendor and glamour, like a frame from a moive. The double-sided tape sitting placidly on my table seems to nod wisely, approving the packages that he and I festively wrapped. My half-packed travellers bag seems to hold tales of adventure and space, bursting with toiletries and stories. She seems so perfect. Carol. The stuff that good lives are make of. The lazy-white of my boyfriend's unwrapped present sprawls unapologetically across the drabby carpet. Humpf. Quite like Seth himself. That boy... The seeping in of a new life, real solid and uncompromisable. We meet and mix and the world is new. I am new.

The tiny things that build my reality and circumstance make me who I am. No, they don't make me, but they sure as hell reinforce and press the finality of my existance into... whatever makes me, me.

I think, therefore I am.
There is a black crayola marker on my table, therefore I am.