There comes a time when it gets to be too much for her.
The mornings are too long, the nights aren’t long enough, but the day just drags on.
She’s not unhappy with her life—quite the opposite. She loves her family more than anything, and her friends bring life back to her smile.
Every day brings her something new to be happy about. She has supporters all around her; they always manage to remind her that she is capable of beautiful things.
She knows she’s human, and that often strikes her as a flaw. She strives for perfection in everything she does, but it is out of human power to maintain that, and her people remind her that there’s a beauty to her imperfection.
She wouldn’t ask for anything more.
But there comes a time when it’s all too tiresome; the waking up and rushing to get ready, trudging out to her car and subsequently making the two-minute commute to the high school, only to sit in the parking lot until her friends are ready to go inside. During the day, she does her best to laugh and exude the happiness she truly does feel, but she also fights to stay conscious in such a fast-paced and ever-changing world.
There’s a growing pit in her stomach reminding her of all the work yet to be done.
It’s no fault of anybody, but she feels as if she should be able to blame something for it: her school for giving her homework, her boss for scheduling her, even the moon and sun for making the days simultaneously drag on and fly by.
When night falls, she thinks about everything and nothing; at times, there’s a never-ending spurt of emotion and information that she can’t navigate on her own, and at other times, there’s not a single cohesive thought. Regardless of which dynamic her mind takes, the common chord struck is one of pure exhaustion.
Her body aches, her mind aches, her heart aches, and, from where she’s standing, it seems there’s no way around it.
And yet, she goes to school and work. She comes home and attempts to do her homework. She gets in bed to try and get the rest she’s been waiting for all day, but she can’t find it.
Eventually, it will all blow over; she just needs to remind herself of that.
This stress won’t last, and in 20 years, she won’t even remember the pain she feels now. She holds onto this thought—she knows it’s easier said than done—and attempts to get through the day.
At any given point, there are just a few more hours until she can restart.
Just a few more hours until she can forget about the troubles of yesterday and move on to the possibilities of tomorrow.
Just a few more hours.
