Something from my journal... You know, the one I write in with a pencil...

As she walks in the moccasins he bought for her birthday she feels the thick softness of loneliness surround her. She moves silently, the velvety rubber nubs on the bottoms of the slipper-like shoes make no noise upon the ground. She feels invisible, and wonders if he ever saw her, even once. She's quieter inside now, it feels like death has cloistered within her brain. As she walks past a window she stares into it, making sure she has not disappeared within the chasms of her mind.

Days take so much out of her. When she wakes each morning she gazes blankly at the textured walls surrounding her, then clamps shut her eyes to block it all out. She fights the desire to ignore the day. There is too much she's ignored already. She forces herself to pry open her eyes and look at the world.

It is bright and hard-edged where she lives. she longs for a cloudy morning, a cashmere mist to cover her. The days are getting colder. It is the night that bites.

When she is alone, and she feels in a way, always alone, she stares at things. Simply stares at objects that will never move or have a soul, and she envies them. Morosely, she secretly wishes for the life of her toaster oven. A view of the kitchen window, and plenty of time to rest. "The toaster oven has it easy" she thinks. As it turns out the toaster oven is in no hurry to exchange positions in the world. Rightly so.

She is waiting. Or she was waiting. It is hard to distinguish between now and then sometimes, what flames are truly out. So she waits for her cameo, for the moment when someone sees her. The casting director never calls for her, and the leading role was given away long ago. So she silently accepts the position of receptionist, and dutifully answers the phones.