No one truly knows the real you.

Making friends could be as simple as writing your name down one piece of paper,
with only your likes, dislikes, and characteristics to describe you.

We say we have best friends,
but do they know the real you?
Or do you hide behind the written piece of paper that describes you?

Do you know the real them?
Or do they hide behind a colorful written piece of paper?

Do you even know the real you?

Our life is a story,
with a paper and a pencil to write it for us.
Or maybe is it someone or something else;
Who are far beyond our knowledge,
writing it for us?
Just like we write books.

Your best friends, wives and husbands,
girlfriends and boyfriends,
are said to know you better than anyone else.
But why is it that sometimes,
I don't even know myself?
If I don't know myself,
then how can someone know me better?

A simple one time thought,
could turn into something big.

A paper and a pencil,
right there.
Taking notes.

In your mind,
where your memories are,
a bunch of post it notes
ranging to possible essays,
just expressing your thoughts of that memory.

Just maybe,
someone else is narrating
my whole life.

I don't understand
why my mind is a mirror,
a camera maybe,
a paper and a pencil.

Your mind is made up
of the things you use the most.

A paper and a pencil,
and an invisible hand,
just writing everything about you.

And you won't even know it.