So, She Writes.

There is a time and place for everything, every moment fits together perfectly with the next. It leads our minds to wonder if we are really in control of our lives or if it is simply written into an unconscious script of the universe, and we are the actors to play the roles.

The things you think you choose in life, could not be what you choose at all. A choice made for you, thought by you, not until that idea is placed into your very skull. For you are a body of experimental purposes, each and everyone of you. Toys. Toys to be played with until earth is destroyed and repopulated with new lab rats.

Like a toddler playing with his tonka trucks, running them on an imaginary road. He slams them together with a tiny clink. Controlling our worlds "accidents", "miracles", and everyday life events.

Are we barbies in the dream house?

Are we bunnies testing cosmetics?

Memories that are not our memories, but forced to believe them to be our own.

You did not float in the waves of our waters. You did not visit Aunt Charlene two months past spring equinox. You did not inhale the deviant airs of Mt. Shirlow.

Or did you?

She scribbles her thoughts into her worn binder of loose lined papers, her thoughts always consuming her as she tried to make sense of them. Trying to get them across to herself so she could look back on her words and see them as she once did before. Needing to allow herself to think deeper than her past self was thinking.

Always unable to decipher her thoughts, feeling as though she was gazing through a pair of binoculars that had frosted over, unwilling to let her look farther from her stance.

Her mind thought big things.

Big for her.

As she grew older her mind grew with her. Her questions no longer as simple as they once were.

Drifting in and out of her own thoughts.

She wondered about everything she possibly could.

Always craving for answers.