Brandy Danielle Nicholson

I'd like to take a moment and state how uninterested in life I currently am. The bee bop shot of your mother's intuition holds no bar to the standard at which I am expected to live. My expectations outweigh any of yours for me or for yourself. Any regret you have is nonsense. This life is unremarkably saddened by the loneliness of drear, fog, and cold. Any chance I've been given is unknown to me, for choices and consequences have taken over my thought process. I can't function properly. I've had this problem for far too long. Where is it that I can find help, promise, hope, or even the slightest bit of will? Where is the passion? This pit is unbelievably deep. I've lost my will to climb. I haven't cared for far too long. I can't live without substance. Yet, it makes me so cold. The beat contains a reference I don't understand, and the chill resembles a bitter end. The life I've been given is a mystery and my problem solving capability was...

The library. My current disposition is placidly grateful to have a matter of choice over my own disposition. I chose this spot, to stand purposfully. I came here to write, to be inspired. Upon observation of my immediate surroundings, I see a woman. This is her. That woman. She sits in a seemingly comfortable chair padded with leather on a wooden frame. Her black converse and rolled up jeans cover her propped feet as she slouches comfortably with a mannerism characterization showing timid and reserved. Her arms are crossed, eyes closed, and head heavy as it sways from side to side as she tries to find a place of rest in her mind. She fights her will to live and sleep and read all simultaneously. Her glasses are still on, but they can't help her see her dreams more clearly. Her arms are crossed just above her magazine that she must have propped up against her legs as a decoy. Her bag sits beside her, vulnerable. Her eyes I'm sure tell a story, one that I cannot read for her e...