She just wanted to be alone. As awful as she knew it sounded, it was true. When she lay there thoughtfully, the same idea played again and again. She lay in bed, wondering about the meaning of life and about all the opportunities that lay within her reach and she knew, she was fulfilled. Had she possibly had the greatest love of her life and more memories than she could truthfully ever need or was it a sad case of lost hopefulness in which she felt like Alice through the hole; a young, lost girl in the midst of finding the meaning of life, but was she choosing to stay in her life, a life as made-up as the importance of the science of dinosaurs which she validly claimed was a waste of a subject in school? As were most, for that matter. What was she living for? Over and over without ever reaching a conclusion, but not feeling desperation in those moments, instead she was sedated with a strong sense of calm in which she tried to ignore any outside influences that so abrasively conflicted with the serenity of thinking about everything and also absolutely nothing.
The roundness of her thoughts might have indeed been causing more anxiety than she cared to acknowledge, however she doubted it. She knew that in civilization, in hers at least, the ability to be a "team-player or a "socialite" was extremely important, but how could one participate in a culture where one felt no more connected to the activities than one did while witnessing two complete strangers embrace? Not only was she heavily conflicted with her own realization of separateness and her own aloneness, but she also had the awful weight of humiliation that one might experience when being observed while being the observer in such an intimate moment as mentioned above.
She knew it was all about perspective, perhaps yet another reason for the inner-struggle she housed while dealing with these years of silence. What would happen, she wondered, if she pulled herself out of the reach of those who have claimed to care and those who she knew truly did? She had come close to something similar before. Not quite suicidal in her thoughts, perhaps close, but not being one for absolutes it was not likely that she would ever pull the triigger or tie the rope and pull the knot. She wasn't suicidal, just a great relier on quiet, peace and thoughtfulnees, things which never came easily with the obtrusion of people, those from the ones who claimed to love her most.
Maybe, she wondered, the problem is not who loved her, but who she chose to love. Something similar had been said years before but she ignored the advice. She felt devastated by the cruel words too much to acknowledge their validity. In fairness, no one likes to admit their faults, specifically when it is one that happens sub-consciously. It is vastly different to being told that you chew too loudly and to know that a small alteration of jaw strength or saliva intake could be modified and therefore cure your annoying habit than to be told that the way you love is faulty; that something as innate and internal as your beating organ could also be the thing plaguing you and ostracizing you from the whole of society and all that it's members may have to offer you.
What then? What can one hope for in a case as desolate as that? In fact, she had appeased herself with any number of scenarios.
