It just crept up on her. Like a sullen boy looking for a sullen girl. There were no words to describe it. Words were no longer easy to craft. And that, my friend, was one of the signs, she drove past, with her foot upon the accelerator.

But no, she wasn’t really wonder woman. She couldn’t just drive through all the obstacles she faced with acceleration. And that, my friend, was another sign, she again drove past. She was a little girl who thought the world was about dreams, fantasies, creativity, imagination, and boy was she wrong. She thought the world would just shed rainbows upon everyone who was deserving. But no, that’s not always the case.

Life can be difficult. Unnecessarily so. She never could see reality as clear as the others. Things can happen at any point in time that can change your perception of yourself. Nothing could have prepared her for this. No curriculum, no adopted ideology, nothing could prepare her for the obstacle she faced. And no person would want to face this. Especially unknowingly.

Perhaps, that was always the issue. She was a dreamer. And then when the dream ended, reality set in and so did the clouds. The rain seemed longer than it actually was. The days seemed longer, and the nights we riddled full of a lack of sleep that no sleep aid could fix. Her eyes would shut, but the noise never did. She thought it was normal.

Did she build this fallacy of a dream and ultimately create this depression? Or did something else? The question always plagues her but there will never be a definite answer. Realistically, the answer is both. In her eyes there are so many factors in situations, she doesn’t even want to think about the past anymore. And when she does, the most sullen of beasts grips onto her as if he will never let go, for there is too much to decipher and reflect upon.

She knows if she digs deeper, she will only discover more people just like her. And the thought, brings a cringe to her face. Just a number she thinks. Everyone of us is just a number now to them. How can you keep your sanity as a number?

How can you not be just a number, when they made you a number?

She knows the fact she even asks these questions brings her hope of escaping an ideology which has done nothing for her but help further her depressing state. A kind of institutional virus she paid to be injected with. Her own ideologies questioned, not embraced in discussion. Her papers written all over with biased red ink. If she looks over them now, it will make her even more infuriated than ever.

So much difficulty she faced, just trying to be herself in a world where acceptance is so hard to come by.

She looks outside though. The sun is still there, shining. She remembers it has always been there and always will be there probably until the day she dies, no matter what happens. She thinks, they sure as heck cannot take away the sun, so I should be okay. Some things cannot be controlled by the human hand.