It isnt until she came across an article in todays paper that made her realize how utterly alone she really was. I guess she had always felt her life was a solitary existence. But as of lately she drifted along in a state of solititude. The article was about a man in his early twenties, stuck deep into the newspaper. On page 26F, whatever that means. Apparently he wasnt of fame or fortune to make startling headlines. Plastered on the front page, a tragedy to all mankind. Just a simple man, with a simple life. This simple man had a simple little three by four inch column. Proof of how important he was in society. Proof that no matter how hard you try, no matter how good of a person you are, if you arent famous, you are disposable and quickly forgotten. This cracker ass guy with no family or friends, with no importance in the world, struck a nerve in the female subject at hand.
She didnt cry. She just shook and rocked back and forth. Emotion was hard to come by anymore. Death was so just, clich�, you know? She went to her closet and reached for the top shelf and pulled out a shoebox. The contents inside revealed her life and the different chapters that she had lived through. This box was the only proof left that she was a human being, with a history. Not the most glamorous history, but a story nonetheless. The fact that all she had to show for was a box of fading photographs, representing fading memories was depressing enough. But she didnt know what depression was anymore. One by one she flipped pictures back in the box until she found the one she was looking for.