I can hear my mothers footsteps against the floor upstairs. The annoying creak that pinches my ears every time she walks out of her door and into the hallway. She's pacing again. Trying to get it through her head that her brother is actually gone. It's been a year and some months since then. The first time I met him I was eight. I thought my uncle was a giant. A six foot tall man with a full grown beard, cowboy hat, a woman under his right arm, and a cigarette in his left hand. In the end they both ended up killing him slowly. I've been staring at my screen for quite a while now. I don't know what to say, think, or do. My coffee cup's almost empty. It will be like that for the rest of this sitting. My dog Hunny is laying on the floor beside me. She looks up at me every time I put my fingers on the keyboard. I wonder if she knows that I I'll probably delete what I've written. My sister just walked in from a Spanish lecture downtown. I wonder if she'll tell them where she really was.

Its a place I've been a thousand times, with a thousand memories, with people who I can no longer tell if they are friends or just a squad. I'm the inside of the crowd, but my heart stands outside this world. I fathom my own thoughts here in this moment, with these people who make me feel free and restricted all at once. I can laugh and put a smile on my face but in the darkest parts of my mind I can't find my place. I'm sitting here so unsure, and so wronged and nothing feels right. The room is full of light but myself walks only in the night. I sit here in my second home, mcondalds is the place I've once felt most shown, but often, I feel alone. But in my house the yelling is all I can feel, it my problem, my deal. But its hard not to kneel. So hide away in this squad of mine, pretend they are enough for me, but still, I feel like I can't breath.

Sitting listening

to the sounds of soft beats

a playlist I found

from a bear

well not really a bear

but an artist drawn as one

Sitting thinking

of a pleasant conversation

I had on my trip home today

I wish I knew more people

who could converse comfortably

Sometimes it's hard to talk

about all the things.

Sitting relaxing

considering my covers and

small comforts of my day.

Have you ever turned off your fans,

And your heaters

And your fake fireplace machine?

All your nightly white noise makers,

Things that keeps the air moving?

Have you quieted your breathing

And wore your heartbeat thin?

Have you turned your eyes to the ceiling,

And focused in?

Now listen.

What is that? From outside?

Why has no one asked before?

That loud creaking, far away...

Is that man made?

Or...

Something more?

The discordant, frenzied chiming

Comes and goes so quickly too.

It doesn't sound like music or noises

That could be made by me or you.

That's why at night, you should not listen.

Bodies are the logical sources.

And if you listen to them closely...

Eventually... They'll notice.

The instructor is walking around the room, his eyes scanning each child with a laptop. A girl is scrolling through her playlist; as the child behind me tipping in his chair, as his friend is flipping through the well-used notebook. In front, and across eyes wander through their textbooks, their fingers holding a pencil as their answers are given to them.

Nothing is ever new in a classroom setting.

It's always the same.

The T.V softly sounds in the background as the kittens cuddle on the couch. The running around has wore them out. Soon they will be up again. Wrecking havoc as kittens often do. For now, only the T.V is heard above the sounds of the keyboard. If I just keep writing maybe my muse will find me. If I just keep typing maybe my novel will write itself. If I just enjoy the serenity of a quiet home and let my creativity flow maybe I will get some actual work done. Instead I turn and watch the kitten sleep. So cute. So sweet. Oh how I'd rather sleep but life would pass me by if I let sleep take over every time I felt the need. No, I must type. Even if it is nonsense that flows through my fingertips. I must type until I can write again.

I'm sitting in the front of my class. Legs crossed. My foot has allowed my white, high heel to slip off. I'm supposed to be teaching about topic sentences, but instead I have them working in their books. Today I'm unmotivated.

The classroom is quiet, apart from the mild whispers and occasional giggle. They're all dressed in dark colors and hoodies. Except for the older student in the front on the far right, and the boy directly in front of me. She is wearing a bright pink top, and he a red t-shirt. They stand out of the crowd.

We are all awaiting lunch. The readings we covered talked about different cultures and food. Now we are faced with growling stomachs. One student who doesn't seem to get the work assigned nervously kicks her feet instead of asking for help.

I can hear yawns as I type this and pages flipping. I don't like this class -- not the students -- but the subject matter. Soon I will stand up and have them read each one aloud. They hate doing that.