She doesn’t know what she’s doing.  Every aspect of her life seems to be locked away in it’s own separate box.  She can’t find the keys, but every once in a while she’ll look through the hole and see an outline of something familiar.  It’s dark, she can never figure out what it is.  Sometime’s it feels right, when she’s looking in.  Sometimes it feels wrong, or maybe just different.  Different sounds kind of nice.

      In her mind, she’s got nothing to call her own; except her mind.  She’ll drive for hours, just her and her thoughts.  Trying to sort things out, but mostly just staring out the window.  It’s hard to organize when there’s so much clutter.  If this was real she could bag it up and drop it at the back door of Goodwill.

      Her ears never stop listening, her eyes watching.  When she stops, problems nag to be dealt with.  She doesn’t have the motivation.  She’s frustrated.  Her frustration causes her to snap.  Now she feels guilty, sorry.  She wishes she could tell you, explain to you, make you understand why, tell you she’ll make it up.  Instead she says nothing and you figure she’s just cold and just can’t be bothered with you.  You figure she just doesn’t love you.  A lot of people figure that.