I'm not pretend, I swear to god.
Whom I've only recently strarted to believe in, and only because I desire something.
And I am pretend in my Imagination, that much is true.
But my perception is scarred and blurred anyway, and what is real and who am I and who will I be? Do I really care?
I guess you know. Or you think you know, which is knowing to me.
But all this time I've know what I think is the secret: you are what others think because the you in your head is so violently different to the you displayed and for sale that only others can know you.
You are like a subjective and ambiguous bit of poetry, only you know the hidden meanings and deliberate devices, so you are biased. You expect people to see these tiny nooks like they are filled with neon, shouting, hollering: 'I Am Here!'
But they don't. Thy find other, obvious things, that you overlooked as being too obvious.  
Then someone comes along and analyses you so candidly, picking up all the tiny bacterium you never noticed- so that you are more than willing to explain the complex juxtaposition of your existence, because they tried to understand. And admitted that they missed the grass in the field of daisies, they never assumed they knew you, they never announced it to the world with badly suppressed glee; that they had solved you like a childish puzzle in three seconds flat.
And people want to be loved, but I think they want to be understood. And we are all a little mixed up.