A.N: Oh misguided Middle school years, how I hate you and all your angst.
Well, I'm rewriting this story, because I love it, but I hate the execution. It's been a few years but, gods I hate myself for not investing in this thing called AUTOCORRECT!
Prologue:
The diameter of the universe is 92 billion light years, and still expanding. Within that large space are massive clouds of collected particles on such massive scales the human mind can't comprehend. There are black holes and the reverse- complex formulas and religions dedicated to solve the mystery of creation, delicate measures to preserve the smallest and most insignificant of lives in a world where nothing matters.
Because nothing matters.
There are trillions of different unicellular organisms, trillions of complex species and 7.4 billion humans competing for survival on an unloving planet, 65 thousand of those people dying today, and 160 being born today by 900 hours, and those numbers will continue to rise exponentially.
Because I know that there are 5000 Shirley Temples in the world, 10,000 writers, 741,769,858 students in the world; I know of my own insignificance.
As I lay here looking up at my plain ceiling, a small light of hope flickers inside me.
Maybe in this small town, I, for once won't seem like an insect. Maybe I could be Cynthia Jones, unique from the 1,000 other Cynthia Jones'. Maybe I could be loved, liked, even appreciated.
A cruel hand reaches inside of me and smothers the flame.
A.N: Wow. Glad to know I'm still capable of being a total angst bucket.
Anyways, thanks for reading this.