I often feel I am in a play, cast in the role of onlooker. Nothing happens to me; it happens AROUND me.
I like that. When I was small and read fairytales, I was always more interested in the minor characters than anyone else. I did not want to be rescued, or was up to the task of rescuing. I had no flare for magic, or anyone to do it for me. I'm hard to fool, but can't set a trap. Neither good guys or bad guys.
Who am I then? The one who sees all, but does nothing. Or perhaps I do have a purpose in this bizarre novel called life, that is either all plot, or has none at all.
So, am I the wise fool or 2nd servant to the left?
"Alice!"
End of my mental monologue. Time to join the human race and eat breakfast.
Sigh. If only there was someone like me. Oh right, every creature is unique. So much for that.
"Alice!"
Why am I here? Why are any of us here? What is HERE, anyway?
"Alice!"
"It's ok, I'm coming!"
***
I eat my actually tasty breakfast, and go get washed up. I try not to get too lost in my thoughts.
Time to study. I love to learn, and it seems to be one time I don't go wandering deep into the labyrinth which is my mind and get really lost.
Also, I take back the thing about there being no one like me. I just can't think of anyone who is in thier thoughts as much as I am. Perhaps the great geniuses...  
Stop it. Concentrate.
I do, and finish with what I need to do.
At lunch, I can't quite keep up with the conversation because I keep wondering what Joan of Arc's hairdo was. (Don' t ask me why.)
I move on to other things, but my bla-bla-bla machine will not stop. It goes on and on about Istanbul, ice cream, romance, papers, lightening,...(did I add partrige in a pear tree?) After I mess up a project, boil a pot dry, and walk into a door, I decide to do something about this.
I decide to write it down. One of the reasons I'm a writer are days like this.
"ALICE!"