A thought between her toes.

She woke with a start as the tears flooded her dreaming eyes and she squeezed her pillow so tight. This was the second time that week that she'd woken to her own crying, and she had a funny feeling that something was wrong.

Stress perhaps?

But stress doesn't turn innocent dreams into real nightmares that seep into your confused soul and jumble your insides. So, maybe there's more to it.

The shrinking girl tried with every last ounce of her morning strength to smile, but could only weep and feel ridiculously sorry for herself. She cluthed her sides and forced her eyes shut. But the sobs only grew stronger and more urgent. And the face in her dreams thudded through her subconcious in streams of quickened heartbeats and pools of frightened sadness.

She splashed her face with water, and scrunched her face with the effort of taming the ever enlarging beast, she calls, her feelings. She was tempted with the urge to be sick, and tantalised by the sharpness of her not so safety scissors, unable to hold the memories of relief back any longer.

And so her worries flew around her little mind fruitifully, and twisted through the tangles in her tinkerbell hair, and slipped between her toes and wove their way inside a curdling heart of longing.

As she fumbled helplessly for her ipod, tears returning to her eyes, the thought exploded. What was that strange feeling of strangeness that had possessed her that seemingly lovely morning? Why did things seem to be falling apart, but were infact lacking the actually apartness in falling? Why, oh why did she overanalyse every milisecond of events and turn the great things backwards? Why couldn't she stop believing that just because she had a funny feeling in the pitt of her stomache not so long ago, it meant that something beautiful was about to end?

Robin Thicke swam and danced and circled her mind harmoniously through the sweet sounds of remembering. It was beautiful, no, is beautiful. And, though she'd told her self a million and one times not to let such a connection that she would internally die if it ever was broken form again, it was too late, and she knew she could never handle the rest of her life once it had fallen apart. Dramatic, I know.

It's going to be fine. She repeated, angsting in the process. And more tears fell as she realised that this wasn't all. By her bed on her desk lay an A4 page of things that needed to be done for school, and only one of them was ticked, and she did NOT have much time.

But what did it all matter anyway? That's what was really worrying her. What did anything matter? What was she even going to do with anything after she'd achieved whatever short term goals were inconspicuously ingrained in her subconcious? But, more importantly, what would it matter in the long run? What WAS the long run?

She stopped crying and switched the light on, pulled her book on sigmund freud onto her lap, and read, and wrote, and completed the work that needed doing. She smiled at the fact that she was a morning person, and the day followed just as any other.