She walks on the bus
Finds a seat
Somewhere in the middle
She's not popular or bold enough to sit in the back
She talks some
But she doesn't necessarily want to be seen
She's about as average as they come

It's 6 am
Dark outside
Cold, wet
Despite this, she drifts her face to the window
To the shapes and shadows

Her thoughts take her
Where they only take her on chilly mornings
when the stars are bright

Deep, philosophical thoughts
She knows the origin of the earth
She understands the Pythagorean theorem and why a right angle is 90 degrees
Things begin to connect and align like the stars
Only to be unraveled again when the sun comes out

Among these thoughts
She wonders about herself
She wants to make a difference
Even though she's a tiny speck in this vast universe

She runs through her accomplishments
The time she gave a speech in front of her 8th-grade class at graduation
That A+ on her math final
Those poems she wrote to her relatives on Christmas
That one song she sang that made her mother cry

"It's not enough," she thinks. "What have I done that will make any difference in the world?"

The stars begin to disappear
The sun floats
The sky turns colour
And the world has form and light

She walks to school
Feeling burdened and useless

I wish she would've stayed a little bit longer
In that middle bus seat
Looked at that one microscopic star, so small, yet still part of the system called the universe

If she had stayed
I would've told her

"Maybe you won't"

Maybe she won't change the world
Maybe she won't find the cure for cancer
Maybe she won't stop World Hunger

Maybe she won't grow up smart and successful
Her name in every newspaper

Maybe she won't become president
Maybe she won't be on TV

Maybe she won't climb a mountain
Maybe she won't write a book that changes the world

Maybe she won't build a castle
Maybe she won't found a city
Maybe she won't start a dynasty

Maybe she won't

But she is still important
She still matters
She still has a purpose
She is enough
She has a reason to exist

She is perfect the way she is

I wish I could hold the night. It doesn't stay long enough. I hardly get a taste of it. I'm stuck in my room, trying to sleep. But I can't. If my bed had wings, I'd fly into the night and I'd see the world without colour and imagine I was the one painting it.
                                                        -What would you use?
I'd improvise. I'd use words. Words have colour, you know. Voices. Thoughts. Music.
                                                      -What type of music?
The type of music that makes you feel life is worth living. That somehow, everything has a place, even when it doesn't.

I sometimes wonder about the clouds. They have everything they could ever imagine - nutrients, beauty, a breathtaking view on the top of the world. They're friends with the stars. Yet, they wander. Hopelessly. The sky is different every day because the clouds keep on moving, floating to nowhere. And even though it has it all, it begins to sink as it replenishes the ground with it's rain.
                                                      -You're a strange one.
I used to think so.

                                    -Do you think they'll ever write a book about us?
That depends. Who are you?
                                                    -Wouldn't you like to know.
Are you my conscience?
                                                 -If I were, you'd know it.
I don't understand.
                                           -You will, in time. tell me more.
I'm afraid I've run out of things to say.
                                     -No you haven't. You never could, as long as the things you say are written.

Do you know how I danced? I twirled and twirled without stopping. The crickets was my music. The greenest grass you've ever seen was my carpet. I danced until the moon slid into the sky. I danced, barefoot.
                                                 -And you laughed.
I don't remember anyone being there.
                                        -But I was. I admired how you danced like you didn't care if others were watching.

I usually care.
                                         -You didn't then.

Feel the wind! I'm gonna travel it one day!
                                           -You already are.
Is it bad that I've already begun to craft my memoirs? I think of them at night. I'm too young to die, but a part of my spirit wonders if that's true.
                                         -You will never die.
Easy for you to say. I'm sure you're immortal, right?.... No response? Well, if I die, it will be from writing myself out until I fade.
                                       -No. You'd die if you didn't write yourself out.

Who are you anyway?
                                      -.....

In an age of social media and technology
We waste away so many hours of our days
Scrolling through snapshots
Of incredible things and places
From all over the world and beyond
We are so amazed by
These glimpses
Of other peoples lives
That we often forget
To live our own.