Unbalanced

She stares blindly into space, seeing but not really seeing. Figures walk around her blurry, colours are bland, its not real its like a painting done by a delusional artist, beautiful enough with out all the boring details. Shes playing with the chopstick in her hand, round and round, staring and staring, she splits the wooden chopstick, still staring blindly, seeing but not really seeing. She looks at the chopstick in her hand, “unbalanced” * in her head shes laughing at herself “unbalanced” oh the chopsticks have no idea how “unbalanced” she really is, their a silly smile playing on her lips and a kind of crazy spark in her eyes. Her eyes finally meet the eyes of the person siting patiently in front of her, their tired, no spark, just wrinkles on brown sun kissed skin. 

“So?” He knows. She continues to stare. 

“So.” Its the answer and the question. Isnt the human mind beautiful? 

She shifts her gaze and looks away, he is breaking into a million little pieces and she, for the life of her, could not bring herself to give him what he needed, reassurance. How could she? When she had none of it to offer, reassurance was not her reality nor was it his and lies would only make it worse than it already is. Still, even if it a lie. They want it. Reassurance. 

She stares at her chopsticks, unbalanced. She sighs, wishing the universe would tell her something useful. Unbalanced. 

*(its a Chinese belief that if you break your chopsticks and they dont break evenly or cleanly that your life is unbalanced )