Words In My Head

Dull

Exhausted. That's how she felt as she stared, only half seeing the electric flickering fireflies winking on the distant riverbank. Usually this sight alone was enough to delight her, to calm her and set her imagination ticking into action. Usually. But not now. Now her mind was elsewhere, as it often was, often is, contemplating.
How was it possible to feel so much older than you were, with the weight of a thousand responsibilities and expectations crushing you inside? Yet at the same time, the girl felt so small and helpless, a child in an adults' world.
She resentfully pondered her situation. Eurgh. Why had everything changed? She had been happy. Truly happy. Now the same people, the same places, the same activities just drained her. What had once made her feel alive was now an endless chore. Pointless. Seemingly irrelevant to her overactive brain.
The sky was one long grey smudge, any sign of stars or moon completely obscured. The girl scowled. She hated the erratic inconsistency of weather patterns almost as much as she hated herself. Almost.
If only she could fast-forward a few years, so she could be prettier, a person who someone might actually like rather than just see as their nerdy friend, so she could have what her cruel circumstances denied her now, the thing she was sure had shattered her world. Not that she would get any prettier. At least then she would actually feel her age. Even rewinding would do, to the retreating times when she was happy and proud to be herself. She didn't know who that person was anymore.
Deep breaths, calm down, you're doing it again.
A million song lyrics echoed around her head at once, not helping her situation at all. Stupid hormones. Or emotions. Or whatever was to blame for this mess. This smiling mess who drags herself out of bed every day and tries to act like the other girl that everyone knew. That everyone praised. That everyone trusted and saw as the 'ask-her-she'll-know-it girl'. And if she dares let her guard down for a second, let the smile slip or her eyes betray her pain, they're onto her immediately. She has come to hate the words 'I'm fine', the false smile which feels like a grimace.
Stop. Enough. Breathe.
The girl tore her eyes from the sky, now resembling a sticky pool of black ink, to glance at her watch. 4.45pm.
She walked home in silence, deafened by the din in her own head.