Vancany

She is strolling around her room, not knowing what to do with her time. Her stack of unread books lay on the floor, confounded by her unusual behavior of leaving it, untouched. Unaware of the blinking green LED of her phone, indicating that she had missed the calls and hadn't read the texts, she is staring at the plain wall so intensely, that if sight was tangible, it would've pierced through that wall. Why, she’s going to ask herself when she would gain her sanity back, did she start deeming everything so uninteresting? She finally sits on her bed, giving in to the natural human phenomenon of getting tired. Perched on the corner of her bed, with her hands resting in her lap, and her hair loosely held in an-almost ponytail, she displays a picture of an inappropriate youth. Maybe she is bored of the monotony. Maybe she wants to escape from all the drama. Maybe she wants to cease being an actor of this play she had unwittingly taken part in. This play called life. Maybe even though she has a blissful life, there is still a vacant portion that needs to be filled. Maybe that vacant portion has somehow dominated the larger, blissful filled part of her. Like an offspring expresses the recessive trait when the dominant gene is absent. Like the big fluffy clouds hide the even bigger sun and make the afternoon seem like evening. She’s still staring at the wall and not thinking about anything. God knows she is not! I know it because I live inside her. I am her soul. And sometimes I just want to give in anything to come out of her and hug her. To tell her that when there is no other person that can understand her, I am the one who opposes all of them.