After reading Rhetoric's Laudator Temporis Acti I've decided to do something similar. These will most likely be less than happy, but all the same a steam of consciousness when I can't seem to write anything else.
She woke again with that feeling of discontentment. An all-engulfing sadness that she could never define. Though she tried countless times. She'd listen to people say her life is good, no reason for her dark emotions.
But it was still there.
Still burying further into her chest, her mind, her every cell.
She kept it from them, from the whole world. Letting her thoughts whir over the same pointless tasks. Waiting for that moment when things would be put in perspective. When she'd let this melancholy fade away like a long-forgotten poem or child-hood friend.
But until then it was there, hanging off her every breath as she claimed she was fine. Receding at the back of every dream. Twisting everything to the pessimism she clung too so desperately. Because how could the world surprise her, if she only expected the worse to come?