What's the Point in Pretending

I'm the boy sitting on the floor as you walk down the hall.
I've always been this way.
I’m asking you: is there nothing more?
I'm asking you.

There's so much more to what you are!
Well, I'm not buying into it.
I don't believe in… so, anyway…

I've spent years like this,
I don't mean to spend another
for my sanity, for my well-being, for my health.
But if it's what I am and I don't believe, if I'm not buying,
then what's the point in pretending
I'm not myself and I'm not you, that I'm not lost?

I'm lost to myself, and it's lost on you,
and I'm not myself when I try to impress you.
I'm lost on myself and I'm finding again
that I'll lie to myself just to pretend

I hadn't spent years like this.
I don't mean to spend another
for my sanity, for my well-being, for my health.
But if it's what I am and I don't believe, if I'm not buying,
then what's the point in pretending
I'm not myself and I'm not you, that I'm not lost?

Lost in the halls long corridors,
shy away from any open doors.
Paranoia's perched over my shoulder,
is there any other way?
I’m asking you.
This is my floor, my own, my space alone, but isn't it so much better?