I lost myself somewhere along the inky pages and dark analogies

Night time falls and I find myself reading through my notebooks, trying to see what someone else might.

Who would they think me to be?

Who am I to them?

Frantically; I look through the pages quickly, whipping past the writing I so carefully layed down across the lined pages. All I see is words. Purple, black, and blue ink too, covered from margin to margin. 

Certain pages with faces, both scared and depressed.

But none of it's real enough to me. 

I grab my pen, write out six, seven, twenty three more lines.

None of it's real enough.

Four more, six more, nine more lines. Twelve words here, then seventeen. The more there is the more it says, right? The more words the bigger the explanation the more I am to the world.

Even though I'm not real enough either.

I wonder what someone reading this might think.

Who I am to them.

But I know it wouldn't matter, because these are just words and there is no person behind them. No feeling, no reality. Just words, no pain.

None of it's real so you can stop caring now. 

None of it's real, right?