She writes. She loves to write. Today she was writing about a boy who wasn’t feeling well, she wrote things about him, she wrote good things about him. She wrote about his strength, without even knowing that he was so weak that couldn’t lift up a feather. She wrote about his good soul, without even knowing its was taken. She wrote about how he was a good friend, without even knowing he felt alone. She wrote about his hopes, without even knowing how many times he fell. She wrote about his outer light, without even knowing that inside he was as dark as a cave. She wrote, and wrote, indeed she convinced. What she didn’t know is that he wasn’t all that she meant. I know she loves to write, I know she does her best, but just like this little boy, her story was a mess.