...

A false sense of start is enough to destroy the heart.

Can you see the hurt in her Eyes?

She smiles (Fake)

She laughs (Fake)

She walks with her head held high... (Fake)

The only thing real about her is what no one seems to notice:

The Hurt.

It's written all over her face: hurt that can't be taken away. Can't be misplaced.

She may be clothed in the finest linen money can buy but her eyes: they cannot--must not--tell lies...

They leave her naked; they leave her bare.

Dark pools of desolation. No where to run. No where to hide.

Only she is there.

You. Don't. Know. Jack.

I've never owned a diary. For some reason, I've always been the type to keep things clutched inside, tightly. I've always hidden myself from the world. I'm afraid. Of what, exactly? I'm not sure. Acceptance, rejection, dejection? I don't know. I don't know anything any more.

I've learned these last few years, that nothing is certain. You can't know anything for a hundred percent. It's impossible. Sure there is some mathematical law to my assertions, which are just that: Melancholy Observations made by a lost nineteen year old girl. There is always a chance that something--anything--can be off. A simple miscalculation of time, an undone button on a coat, an untied shoe lace.

Life is a web of intricacies; a delicate balance between knowledge and oblivion.

No one can know everything, but can someone know nothing?