In the midst of everything that exists
There also exists a girl.
She does what many others do.
Concentrating too much on what was
And not enough on what is
Or what could be.
And in the process
Forgetting the simple truths
That makes us real, living,
Breathing human beings.
With a soul and a heart
That can reach and touch another.

What can she be named?
That girl, who has ultimately
Forgotten how to love...?
It is more common now than ever
Or so it seems.
At least, in this life.

She has never fallen or stumbled
On any path in life she wearily walked.
Yet, with each step growing more uncertain
She feels as if she's lost a part of herself.
All her beliefs she felt with conviction,
Now mere smokes and mirrors.
Withering into nothing and pumped out as ash
From a chimney of an abandoned home
Where she used to sit alone to collect herself.
Reflecting off everything that confined her
And everyone who ever told her she wasn't.
Never specifying what she couldn't touch.
Just that she didn't have the reach.

The places she had been to
People she spoke to and been lied to (more than likely)
Seemed distant or faded, like old photographs
Of memories vaguely recalled.
All she knew was that there was only one thing that mattered
One simple truth.
The difference between them and herself
Was that they were comfortable.
Comfortable in the lies they told.
The pointless lives they lived.
Ignorant of anything that wasn't right in front of them
And even then--
Even then, never ventured a look.

She might not have been perfect, few seldom are.
But her eyes of polished topaz, cut to a clean finish,
Were wide open.
She saw things that nobody else conceived...
That there was human error that needed to be noticed,
Needed to be corrected.
And there was a beautiful world out there
If one would only lift their head
From whatever self-constructed fantasy they were buried in,
And look.