There are hours in which I find myself alone. Not physically, but truly, truly alone. The eaves creak and groan like they've beared the very weight of my memories. They do not scream.
Is this all I was made for? Walls and fluorescent orbs that mock the light of the sun? Or perhaps the pinpricks on fine edges of paper, hollowing out the meaning behind the stars. The holes in our container.
I will never mock my younger self, never make fun of the way she knew she belonged to something bigger. Other people may abuse and ridicule their younger selves but I could never. I could never.
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Short Stories
Short StoryConfusion is good for the mind. Try to figure out what each of these stories mean. Hint: they all have more than one meaning
