,,I think there’s something wrong.”
She moves, biting down the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at her chest.
,,Try again please.”
,,I know there’s something wrong.”
Because you told me so.
,,Because my head hurts.”
,,That’s a physical thing. We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we?”
And she wants to do nothing more but choke of its head. Why am I wrong why am I wrong why am I wrong why am I wrongwhyamiwrongwhyamiwrongwhy-
,,Yeah, we have.”
,,Tell me then, what’s wrong.”
,,I’d rather not.”
Its face twists, as if she stepped wrong on a block she shouldn’t be around in a game, and an instant red light flashes upon her face-
,,Because you’d only label me as something I know I’m not.”
Her words burned in her throat as they left her, but she knew she had to, so she did – she isn’t something completely invalid, though it acts like she is. She knows and can recognize thoughts and people, reality and fantasy – that only thing wrong with her, is that she wants these lines gone.
And wanting such things gone, is part of the result she lives in now – if one could call it that.
,,I’m wrong,” she cries down to the paper in front of her, tears patting the surface and making the edges rough. ,,I don’t fit. Why don’t I fit? Whatever did I do to wrong this world?”
And as always
The paper doesn’t have an answer.
The swing carries her from the ground, lifts her up and crushes her through the wind, breaking barriers after barriers of simple air.
It feels nice, being outside like this – not being on a swing, however. But she figures she needs to do something instead of only staring into thin nothings. So she lifted her feet, kicking into the blue and started moving slowly.
The air whispers quietly in her ears, a sound that quickly turns into a short screech when she jumps, air failing to grab her body as she flies down, body squatting as she lands safely in the sand beneath her. ,,Good,” she says down to lines filled with ink, and she nods at herself. ,,But lacking.”
The next day she runs. Runs and runs, a vivid forest soon enveloping her moving body as she runs forward, spring right around the corner and leaving small buds of greens on trees and bushes, only waiting for the next rain to spring out and paint the world in warm colors yet again.
She feels her chest jumping in silent excitement at the thought, hands and feet itching with false composure and she almost jump in delight, because something good and bright is right around the corner. She speeds up, muscles protesting but she doesn’t
,,I’ve always been able to keep going,” she admits to the paper. ,,Whenever I run, I feel that pull. Or maybe you would call it a push. That I’m not quite done,” and yet again she smiles, this time a real thing that leaves her toes curled beneath herself.
,,So I push forward.”