A book of thoughts, poems, and writing. By: Zoë Vangogh

Beginings or middles of stories I'll probably never finish..

I stood silently on the hard earth beneath me, I stood waiting for a sign letting me know it was time to leave, that he was truly gone. Even as I looked at his name in large letters across, and I continued to stare at the year born to where it said this year now. I still waited, waited for something to reassure me to leave and go home. My mind couldn't form much of any thought, I couldn't even think of something that would mean home to me; not a simple recognition, a person or a place, I couldn't think of any. I knew I had been standing here silently for hours and I knew If someone had seen me waiting as if something was going to come to my rescue, to see me waiting for something so hopeful they would have been very curious of me. I know if i had seen a girl of such a young age all alone here on a Saturday spending hours standing where all who were gone stayed, without even moving, I would wonder about her a little bit too..
But of course no one was here on a Saturday so late in the night. But lately I've spent my nights here instead of days like most, because if I were to come during the day I know I would feel everyone's little eyes piercing deeply through me as they stared, and because I couldn't sleep much from all the nightmares and so coming here made my mind believe that if I stay at the place where his body lies then maybe if I stay long enough it will become a nightmare and not reality. At night here I still feel connected to him, the most I've felt connected to anything since that day.