And so there we lay.

Carefully-constructed words aimed cautiously at the other.

Voices hushed and low.

Controlled to keep the emotions behind them at bay.

Bitten tongues and wary walk-aways.

A pageful of "never mind"s and "it's ok"s.

Not knowing whether to empathize or hate.

Gingerly leaving a frayed knot alone lest it twines even more around itself.

Wanting to despise and lash back, but understanding the unwanted consequences.

Lost.

That's what I am.

That's what you are.

That's what everyone was/is/will be.

My thoughts confound me, they really do.

Am I capable of all these?

A fleeting moment of glory.

Of fondness for the beauty of the play of words.

I need to find The Still Point again.

That book is the epitome of perfection.

It is the reason I love to write.

It is, no other words, my inspiration.

I need to find it.

I need to find it so I can lose myself once more in the icy cool transcience of it all.

My favourite book, no doubt, besides A Little Princess.

The tale of a young wife, promising to wait for her husband the unsung hero exploring the Pole.

I hate teen books now.

So shallow.

Those from the adult section are much more appealing.

The Still Point just screams me.

It is me.

I am trapped in some silly Elizabethan era, am I not?

Is it not the reason I think the way I do?

I need to find The Still Point.

You brought me into this.

I never asked for any of it.