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Description
He lived in a house full of strangers that he knew too well. Bound by titles that were entirely superficial. Arguments were such a common occurrence they had simply become part of the daily routine, as brushing your teeth is. He wanted to leave – no, he loved this house; it was the people whom he wanted to vacate the vicinity. Once too often had he cried for no reason, alone, receiving no sympathy or comfort even if his sadness was known. The only respite was to be away from the faces he knew all too well, even school was helpful in forgetting what lay in wait at the house. He had many friends, if you could call them that; ‘Perhaps’, he thought, ‘they are merely people I know, and perhaps I simply happen to know many people’.
Yes, he was fortunate. He lived in a lovely middle class house, had plenty of food, drink, a warm bed, his own room, and a multitude of opportunities – privileges, as some people liked to call them. He was grateful for that, however that still could not console his rather melodramatic emotions. ‘To be surrounded by people but to be desperately lonely, is this what my life is?’ he often thought. He quite liked to think of himself as a desperate Hamlet character; ‘a mere fantasy’ he caught himself, too often had he almost yielded to the subconscious of his mind and allowed his fantastical desires to roam. More often than not he even tried to view the world in a surreal way in order to seem interesting, but why be interesting when no one is there to notice? Whether he was depressed or “surreal”, he always wished someone would come, anyone, to console him, to realise something was wrong (though he wasn’t sure of what that something was), or to marvel at his intellect and wonder at his maturity. ‘I have to stop kidding myself’, no one ever came.

Description
He lived in a house full of strangers that he knew too well. Bound by titles that were entirely superficial. Arguments were such a common occurrence they had simply become part of the daily routine, as brushing your teeth is. He wanted to leave – no, he loved this house; it was the people whom he wanted to vacate the vicinity. Once too often had he cried for no reason, alone, receiving no sympathy or comfort even if his sadness was known. The only respite was to be away from the faces he knew all too well, even school was helpful in forgetting what lay in wait at the house. He had many friends, if you could call them that; ‘Perhaps’, he thought, ‘they are merely people I know, and perhaps I simply happen to know many people’.
Yes, he was fortunate. He lived in a lovely middle class house, had plenty of food, drink, a warm bed, his own room, and a multitude of opportunities – privileges, as some people liked to call them. He was grateful for that, however that still could not console his rather melodramatic emotions. ‘To be surrounded by people but to be desperately lonely, is this what my life is?’ he often thought. He quite liked to think of himself as a desperate Hamlet character; ‘a mere fantasy’ he caught himself, too often had he almost yielded to the subconscious of his mind and allowed his fantastical desires to roam. More often than not he even tried to view the world in a surreal way in order to seem interesting, but why be interesting when no one is there to notice? Whether he was depressed or “surreal”, he always wished someone would come, anyone, to console him, to realise something was wrong (though he wasn’t sure of what that something was), or to marvel at his intellect and wonder at his maturity. ‘I have to stop kidding myself’, no one ever came.