What would it be like to see yourself in third person? Would we judge ourselves the same should we stand in a different perspective?

I am a harsh critic. Sometimes striving for objectivity, but nonetheless slave to the impulsive snaps of instinct and emotional upsurge.

She sits on her bed, with legs sprawled across the mattress, and her hands typing away her everyday self-conceived misery. Her room is bright and lively. Crisp colors of green, orange and pink mimic the feel of a clear sunny day. Sunlight streams through the windows painted with Christmas pines. Her room screams of a child prancing, jovial and innocent, running accross the prarie, waving and giggling. She defies this however, and sits desolate and distant from the enlivening charm radiating from her walls. She is encapsulated by an invisible force, shielding her from everything except her own self. Abandonment never tasted this real to her. Out of all the emptiness it brings forth, she feels it, hollow and dark, existent and absent, but all the same real.