That girl; you don’t want to be her.

She’s the girl no one ever sees. She doesn’t hide, exactly.

They just don’t look. They pass her by, day-in and day-out.

And she watches. She waits. She minds her own.

And she escapes into the minds of others because hers is too dark to navigate.

Adventure and fantasy, romance and mystery: she herself owns none.

Her dreams are chasing dreams, and she is forced to run, to hide.

They’re tiresome. If not for the danger of her deadly dreams, they would harbor magic in their threads of non-reality, for they sweep her off to faraway places and planets and lands that are a melting pot of every book she’s ever read.

She doesn’t speak; she has nothing to say.

Even if she did, they wouldn’t listen, so she remains silent.

She doesn’t fit with them; they don’t try, and neither does she.

She’s given up caring what the rest of the world has to say about her.

It’s never anything good.

Not all of them have it easy, but the ones that do don’t realize that not everyone has it as leisurely as them.

They’ve never seen death, never felt pain or hardship; ignorant to the ways of the world.

Then there are those that walk around with a chip on their shoulder, with an attitude as if the world and everyone (or a select group of people) in it owed them something.

There are the people that think that they’re better than you and think that they can judge you for your impurities as though they had none.

She doesn’t like people very much.