I walk in from a dreary day of nothing but bitterness. As I walk in I see only my notebook. The same notebook where I cried over nonsense, the one that I killed creepy crawling insects, the same one where I wrote my most inner thoughts; my inner being. I wrote your name and crossed it out twice just for reassurance. Then I laughed with noticeable anguish. Then I wrote it again, then threw it against the wall knowing that we were no longer talking, no loner anything but people who walked by each other on the street. In minds eye I had several scenarios in my head. One being slamming my desk against the wall and making my knuckles bleed, but sooner I realized it wasn't worth it. In this notebook I wrote what was a life from so many times in a year. The same girl who could make anyone laugh, be the life of the party, the same girl who could be so quiet, and look so vulnerable. And this girl has died right there in those pages, so many times, but that's where she resides, but no one bothers to read; to turn the pages. I look back through those pages with as much curiosity as if I was an infant. I'm blank as stone. Just starring on into a space all my own. All my own. What were to happen if I lost another. Someone as or equally as important, what would that same girl have done? Broken down...cried those tears all over again just for the taste of the same death. No, I think she would grow colder, more distant in her stance. Alone and rigid in faith for another chance what would have been happiness. The world that she had once known would have grown to a beauty of so many before her. She is gone, like the wind that blew away the ashes of the last possible happiness that could have been given. She is lost; lost in the pages. And only time will tell whether or not she is ready to break free.