"I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can." -Ernest Hemingway

“The only living works are those which have drained much of the author's own life into them.” –Samuel Butler

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Remembering

            Conspiring brainstorming flowed around her as her mind drifted to another time. Melancholy feelings cascaded through her in crashing waves and she desired nothing more that to turn back the clock.
            Blankly staring at the passing scenery around her, she relived the few memories she could recall. All the times she was ostracized for her young age and the too-few days she had childishly played with her friends swarmed her mind.
            Wishing time-travel existed, she pitied her missed opportunities and fading memories. These emotions, so thick she could swim in them, were her undoing and she realized they were just wounding her.
            Morning what she couldn’t change one last time, she began tucking her thoughts away in their designated compartment in her brain and she drifted back to the present. The conversation around her surged in a mighty wave of words to envelope her.
            Smiling to herself because of the friendly faces nearby, she decided to enjoy the current days rather that rehash what was out of her reach.

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