I am just a rough draft

Life is the most confusing, difficult thing in which I must try to wrap my head around. Once I've figured out what might make sense, it doesn't anymore, and I find myself circling in a pit of confusion, only to wake up the next morning and find that it's changed. Does that make sense? Perhaps not to the onlooker. For this I'm sorry.
Now that I've brushed that out of the way.. I have to say this, in third person.
She wasn't as free as she wished to be. They whispered behind her, about the ways she carried herself, the way she was. They didn't approve. Everything about her was wrong. That was how it was seen, and such was evident to the girl. She didn't believe that they cared that it pained her so.
"It's not a dream," she whispered, her voice no more than a slight rasp. The girl stood protected in the eaves of a great pine tree. Below her the ground seemed a mere illusion, and the world spread out before her was the only real thing. It very well could of been a paint canvas; the ultimate masterpiece. "I want to fly," she screamed, letting the tears out. Why was everything wrong, when it should be right? She'd betrayed everything she knew to be the truth. She was nothing but a liar. And she knew she couldn't fly. Instead, she'd fall. No more lies for the ones she loved. No more pain.
Sometimes it works better for me to write things in third person. I don't know why, but it makes me feel better. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight.