Messy head.

She had been thinking for a while, or had she? Had she been thinking or it was just dreaming? These days whenever she tried to talk to herself, it backfired on her. She couldn't say anything without being asked a question in return. Everything she had in her mind was either not true or unverified. She didn't know if she was doing it, thinking, or all she had been doing all this time was nothing but just babbling around like an old lady who was not young enough to talk to herself at home and old enough to start a usual conversation in her head and out of her mouth while waiting in the line at McDonald's. She had no idea, and that was why she was here, did her best to write down words that she didn't even recognize. What was she doing now?, she wrote. She understood better than anyone else, oh yes, of course, who on earth would bother spending their precious limited time just to get to know her, who cared to do that? She herself, didn't even have the slightest idea of trying to get to know what was inside the nest inside her head inside her or maybe not-her's skull. She questioned everything and she once again, ended up thinking because there would be no answer to be found when she opened her eyes because all she had seen at nights was dark, so dark she couldn't taste a tear. There were so many things, and were not always thoughts, nested above and under the sky, as if they were her hair tangling and dying and falling and not rising, because she was not, would never be, made of ashes. She liked to say to herself sometimes that she had dreams at nights. But she didn't. She didn't dream very often, or perhaps she was still dreaming? Yes, perhaps was a nice word, she decided. She was not sure if she liked the word for itself or because of its meaning, or because of nothing, and she liked it because it was it. She was curious, all of a sudden, when she thought about her mother, and wondered if she was loved because of who she was, or because of who she could never be.