I am my own Confusion.

This isn't your life you're leading. It's a dizzying blur of a million things. Your father's ideas, your mother's hope. The fleeting hug your brother gave you before he left. The way your best friend painted your toe nails a scarlet red when you probably would have preferred a tamer colour. This isn't your life.

There are books on Chemistry piled on your bookshelf. Yet, in the dark of the night, you scribble poetry on old notepads. You like your peace, you like your loneliness. Yet, every weekend, you find yourself making your way through noisy teenagers, making small talk about life in the hazy backroom of a bar. You work for a corporate, you wear your stiff white shirts and carry leather handbags. You make cookie-cutter presentations to impress the people on the other side of the table. Yet, ever so often you close your eyes and imagine yourself wandering through the muddy roads of a small town, thinking thoughts in your head that you're obliged to tell no one.

You live in a crowded city, you fit in like you should. You don't have time to stop and gaze at the world. You have some place to be. You read on your phone because it's just convenient. Your handbag has unpaid bills and make-up.

You fall asleep with escape swimming in your eyes. Your mind is full of half baked plans to pack your life up in a backpack and leave. You dream of oakwood book shelves and freshly made buttermilk cookies.

Then one day, you find yourself enjoying your work. You go to the bathroom and shriek. You write more everyday. You jog more everyday.

You stand outside your office holding your papers, smoke snaking out of your thin lips.
 
It isn't your life. It isn't.

But you don't hate it as much.

Also, your poetry is getting a lot better.