I have been staring at this floor for what feels like an eternity. It is always the same dull, mind-numbing pattern that bores me beyond comprehension. The never ending trails of grout move through the square shaped tiles in a zigzag; the color fades in various shades of gray and brown, almost like it is shrieking to you that it is dirty. All across the floor are toys that have been strewn about in random places that add a sense of difference throughout the days. The small objects in assorted shapes and themes, that look like they would fit in a puzzle, hide beneath the chairs and the table in front of me. The table itself was made up of a smooth dark wood with wavy stripes in an almost reddish black hue. It constantly had junk scattered upon it. Varying from papers from school, and tools from work, and drawing supplies, and coloring books, and packages that had come in the mail the day before. The windows on the wall beside the table had long draping curtains that let little to no light in when closed; however, when opened, the rays of light that shone through lit up the room. Accentuating the teal rug and paintings that were filling the empty space. The room sparkled like diamonds and seemed ten times brighter than it actually was. Then there was me. I have my place in this evidently beautiful disaster, hidden in a looming corner against a wall. 

        I have no identity but that of others and I have no friends but many people still talk to me. I hear secrets that no one else can hear, I know insecurities that no one else can know. I see things that no one else can or should see. I have no one there for me. I feel so alone in this world of mine. This feeling of being alone haunts me time after time. Until it engulfs my mind of paranoia. It feels like I am trapped in a hole with no way out and all I can do is look up at the light at the opening of the hole. The opening that gives me hope. The hope that the idea that I will be able to converse and share emotions with someone is realistic. I know it is not and that I will never be able to reach that light but I cannot help but hope. Besides, people just rush past me, hardly even notice that I am here. How could I believe in such childish dreams? Only when people need me, do they care.

        A girl needed me the other day. It was a wonderful feeling that rarely ever happens. She came up to me and was fixing her hair, meanwhile she told me about her day. I was so excited to listen, just being talked to was enough for me to almost shatter with joy. The feeling of hope was coming back to me. She talked about her many classes in school and how she had several tests to take and study for. I was able to see in her eyes that she was stressed out about these things. A wave of panic was slowly building behind that ocean in her eyes and yet she continued to talk about her day as if nothing was wrong. I lost focus for a bit as one of the cats came down the stairs. A brown tabby cat with black stripes along the back of its body, it had seemed to camouflage with the wood of the stairs. The only thing letting you know that it was a cat were these big yellow eyes that seemed to stare endlessly at nothing at all. The small fluffy paws moved so fast down the steps as the cat reached the cold grey tile of the first floor. As it moved down, the long brown fur flowed against the banisters and railings. Strands of it would shine and glimmer in the light of the windows and fall slowly to the ground as the cat shed more fur. I had refocused on the girl, but to my surprise she had turned to her mother. She was never talking to me after all. That is how it always is though. People come up to me and act like they are talking to me but they are not. It is just my imagination, just my craving for attention and interaction, just my hopefulness getting the better of me.

        I guess I am alone, huh? This is how it has been for as long as I can remember and it is probably how it is going to be for the rest of my life. After all, I am disposable, as I have been told. I can be replaced if I am broken, over and over again, and I am just metal and glass pressed together strictly for the purpose and entertainment of others. With my wooden border to match the table. I am just a tool. A blank, vague, and empty object that holds so much potential and yet, never fulfills it. I am just…a mirror.