I feel myself floating, floating above myself. The world around me is merely an object to observe, a way to pass the time. The clock is ticking and my time is running out. The clock sings to me and tells me another hour has passed, it reminds me of what I have done with my life, absolutely fucking nothing.

The little girl is twiddling her thumbs, except the little girl isn't so little anymore. She is grown, but doesn't know she's grown. She is longing for what she missed. Go ahead and paint yourself a picture, you can paint it with the prettiest colors in the world. You can paint it with happiness and sequins and diamonds and all the love in the world. Create your masterpiece out of cardboard and clay but in the end it's still just cardboard and clay.

She doesn't know it yet. She doesn't know what lies before her. She creates images in her head of what could be and what has been. She spends her time either with her head in the clouds or with her mind in places that terrify. She needs everything yet wants nothing. She smiles at people in hopes they smile back. Mother always said to lend a helping hand because you get what you give. It's best to listen to mother because mother knows best and mother is never wrong. She's a good little girl and doesn't give much of a fuss. To fuss is to complain and complaining never got anyone anywhere now did it? Mother says, "hush, little girl and wipe those tears. they are not needed and you are making a scene" "cut that out now, little girl, quit feeling sorry for yourself." So the little girl laughed and played and danced around as if all the world was good. The little girl never told anyone her secrets, because secrets are meant to be kept. "It's a difficult place to be," she says, "but you learn to live."