She did not what to say. Or think. So she brooded over the dilemma.

Her mind felt like a bottomless pit. Talking was a chore. Thinking was work. Working was automated.

She used to be able to fight. She used to be able to cry. Now she gulps it in and later thinks about not talking about it.

Is it better this way? Has it made a difference? At what age do you stop making mistakes? At what age do you learn to be exactly what you wanted to be? She did not know. She did not even try to think whether she cared.

Mistakes are a part of life. She had learnt this lesson so early in life that it did not hurt anymore. She knew her mistakes were of the grave kind. Kinds that changed her a little bit every time. However, these were as much a part of her as were her pains and her smiles.

Fighting was so much harder now than before. It was easier to ignore. Tomorrow is always a new day.