In my head

I still recognize them, people like me, misfits, dreamers, bookworms, always a little out of space.Strangers that look familiar within the glimpse  of an eye,  wondering what this is all about. I thought being a wife and a mother, all that perfect society fit in stuff, would make me feel settled, would make me a part of it, perfectly fitting in. But it doesn‘t. If anything, I feel even more like a stranger, being kind  of symbiotic to my kids‘ feelings, as if they echo in me,deep down. Trying to rationalize all that overwhelming outbursts of pure emotion. Doesn‘t work, of course. So here I am, still the misfit, the rebel, the akward girl. Observing the others, seeing stories I don‘t have or take the time to write down. Seeing things just a little too different to make friends. Spinning on the edge, so thinking in english, if I can force myself to keep thinking in englisch, gives me a break, a break from thinking about my two precious, gorgeous kids and being their mom with every cell of my body, so now I‘m in my little bubble, escaping from reality, reading a few lines of a fictional novel or  watching some Supernatural , in englisch of course, while everybody else is sleeping. Always been a night person. Some things never change.