Somewhere in this world, there is a girl sitting cross-legged on her bed. She is drinking peach tea and eating a chocolate chip cookie and typing away on an iPad that is not hers. There is a faint aching in the back of her head, probably from that afternoon's soccer game. She doesn't want to talk about that. Instead, she takes another sip from her warm mug and looks around her. She is surrounded by notebooks, pens, and a dictionary, all gateways to words. She will admit proudly to having read the dictionary earlier. Where else can you find words like eleemosynary? What a strange word. The girl stops typing for a minute and gets up to brush her hair. Settling back into the sheets, she pushes away her worries once more. All the things she has to tell herself, don't think about that.
The words stop coming as fast. It's just a trickle now. The iPad is at 38% battery. It's only 8:33. She remembers a time long ago when that was late. Not so anymore. But the tea is becoming lukewarm and the girl feels like she has said all there is to say. None of it is deep, or poetic, but it's what she wanted to write. That's all that matters, she thinks, promising herself longer, better posts soon.
And so she presses publish.