Before we go into this story, I’d like to say it’s not much of a story. It’s written like a diary of someone looking in on someones life, keeping record of their thoughts and truly describing their emotion (Clara’s).The narrator is Clara stepped out of herself and looking in her own life; telling herself things she never had the guts to say. This is the only way Clara can truly describe herself and her own emotions. I’m going to catch you up to today’s date, slowly,but surely. Enjoy :)

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She was reading a book, “Stopover” was its’ name. She got so involved in it, that she forgot all of her own troubles and worried about the troubles of the characters in her book. It was fiction, of course, but she always found ‘truth’ in it. She could never decide what kind of story she liked most, fiction or nonfiction. She often confused the two, not because she was unable to tell the difference, but because they affected her just the same. She loved to write ; she loved to imagine everything in her head, she’d even think of the words she’d put in a book, but when the pen hit the paper, she’d forgotten how to write, she’d forgotten how to put words together like she did so beautifully in her mind. When she thought them up, they flowed together like the fish in a fresh water river stream, but when the ink graced the paper, the words just came out wrong; even her handwriting broke off and didn’t come together as she imagined it would. It’s patience she lacked; she wasn’t patient to write one word at a time, she wanted it all to flow out of her pen without her effort; but that’s not the way life works, and soon she’d have to learn that patience is a virtue.