CloudAran

Tired and beleaguered I find myself staring blankly at my reflection in the windows as we pass wearily by each pane's border with the next. I become confused and dazed by the image drifting before me. Who is this person? Too familiar and boring to be interesting and too alien to be a friend. I find myself disconnected from myself as I stare at him and wonder, who is this person? What is he to me? I gaze at the window blankly for several minutes while the conveyor belt ferries me down the long hallway. I look at him, through him and through myself, beyond the glass into the obstructed and dimly lit distance, until finally I reach the end of

 My memories of writting as a child are much the same as my memories of writting now and before.  I always have disliked forced free writting and had a serious lack of inspiration for any such task.  Writting has been one of my struggles, but obviously not my biggest problem or the only one I've ever had.  However, everything ties in somewhere and sometimes small problems are just the same as the big ones. In early elementary school I was secluded into my own isolated place to write unlike the rest of the class because for some reason isolation and cardborad desk walls were supposed to inspire me. I would dread