That beautiful evening, as she walked, she sang this old song that had been flying inside her mind lately. Strange place this was, where she lived, this neighborhood was known for being peaceful. “Strange” referred to its uniqueness, being a big, populated place, houses only, right in the middle of a functioning little city, less than a city, a town. She felt the cold fuzz of air when she passed behind the shadow of a tree by the sidewalk, but rushed cheerfully out of it to be warmly greeted again by the setting sun. Around 4pm, it was her favorite time to go off and walk around. Lost. No, not quite lost. Just a brake, a getaway, to forget it all. It all. What tormented her, what made her happy, what broke her? Interesting, some thought, to have so many diverse emotions towards a certain condition that makes you sick, so sick you end up loving it, treasuring it. Poetic, it was all so poetic, but it was real. No normal writer would dare to hit readers with such harsh writing. Harsh meaning not bloody, or violent, or scary, or grotesque; but real. That is what our species is terrified the most; reality. That all their nightmares, fears, crazy imaginations, twisted stories and impossible theories become true. They are all living in a thin, delicate cotton thread. Gathering all little things that keep us together to survive. But at the same time they were brutally tearing out remarkable pieces of their own existence, to sustain the moment, not the future.
This thought, this little idea, danced around her busy head. One valuable head she had, Loathing feelings that she loved, analyzing their living in another plane, an outside, objective plane. How?
How?
She wondered.