Her eyelids are drawn open by a stream of sunlight breaking through the cracks in the blinds of her bedroom window. She blinks a few times before realizing where she is: in a familiar place with a familiar feeling in her stomach. It is morning, and it is a new day.

She takes care brushing her teeth and picking out her clothes, wanting desperately only to make a quiet impression. One last look in the mirror and her flaws are masked enough by her hopeful smile that she leaves the bathroom content. Not happy, never happy. Her personality is not one that can accept happiness. Happiness is too fragile an emotion, she tells herself. Happiness cannot be put in a jar and saved for a rainy day, happiness cannot last long enough to escape sadness, and therefore she finds peace in contentment. 

To be content means to look forward to the future, to understand the past, to appreciate the present. It means to close one's eyes and realize a soft smile in the thoughts of small things. It never gives butterflies, but then again, you haven't been one to chase a butterfly as it flies past, have you? 

She walks out the door with enough worries to keep her contentment company. Life is all about balance, she quietly tells herself. It is about accepting the negativity, understanding it, but also pushing it down just deep enough to let a little hope escape. Not much, because hope is a dangerous thing to carry around. It brings the butterfly ideas, it opens doors that it cannot promise will remain that way long enough to let one's entire being through. Who could ever learn to love the feeling of being out of control? life is never fully in the hands of those who live it, but hoping instead of facing reality is just dangerous. 

She goes through the motions of a regular day, still unsure about whether she loves or hates the routine of her life. The people she met yesterday are the same as the people she met today, yet the ability of their opinions to change keeps her just on the edge of feeling comfortable. 

That's the thing about people, isn't it? You cannot read their minds, and it hurts to realize that they could be thinking many awful things behind the wall of their eyes. It is also quite possible for them to be thinking wonderful things about you, but then again, you never really have been one to choose optimism, have you? 

Each day she is fascinated by the quickness of life. It moves as if nothing else matters. movement is the only thing that takes its mind; anything else is irrelevant. sometimes she wonders if she can keep up. Is she really ready for change? she must be as it appears everyone else already is. 

Growth is what takes her mind the furthest. Imagination consumes her as she remembers yesterday and how it has passed her and changed her. she opens her mouth, almost ready to speak about how tomorrow will leave today breathless, but then she remembers that she is not yet in tomorrow, and there is nothing she can do to change that. And yet, when today yanks her from her reverie, she cannot help but wonder how she has come in time from point a to point b, and how she has become a letter so far from the rest of the alphabet. 

That is what you feel, isn't it? you feel different than you did a few hours ago, and you wonder if it is only you that life is changing, or if you are the only static thing in a world full of change. with so many points on the graph paper squares of the universe, it is difficult to believe that small changes in your own frame of thinking will get you away from your destined path of points. On which point will you end your days? it is impossible to tell that today, and tomorrow looks also like a bleak day for fortune-tellings.