could it be there was a time when originality and creativity was alive in her without effort? yes, at one time this girl had the energy and ability to evoke this sense of confidence we all knew so well. always the center of attention, she had a warm smile, a smile that embodied her friendly personality. a smile that beckoned to be spoken to. the troubles and problems she'd struggled through were no match for terrible memory and all damaging incidents were lost to a war of remember whens. more than invincible, she was really just careless. every dark moment, every tear laid somewhere deep inside her and whether she could find it was really an open ended question. she forgot the pains and moved on. was she lucky? no. ignorant. blissfully ignorant. yet habit begged her to write these things down and so she did. every night she recorded her feelings, a timeline of thoughts and actions. every night she turned a new page, but never looked back. what was the point? what was the purpose behind all these notebooks of wrinkled pages, tired sheets of a life that was questionable in existance. each dated corner could be turned in chronological order, but spoke of times that had long been forgotten. should she ever actually turn the pages back, perhaps start at the beginning, she would be reading about someone else. someone she made no effort to forget but simply changed out of. like a new change of clothes. lacking grace and committment she moved on quick and easy. a nomadic life such as this served as camouflage for many heart breaks, shelter from future damages. was it all for naught? had she a better chance to stay inside everyday and create her own fictionary life? she made an occupation of imitation, mocking those she knew well, even those she knew very little. with each day came a new accquaintance and she'd learn a new habit, a new way of talking perhaps, or a way of moving her hands. was she lucky? no. certainly, it was not creativity or originality she lacked but a strong sense of motivation to ever give a damn.