She had all this potential, lost on survival. Maybe when she was five and reached out for the warmth of understanding, that was when the list began. Though, it could have been as early as infancy and her incessant crying to just be heard. Frizzy hair and thick glasses, the middle years were bursting with disappointments. By high school, she knew she was on her own. The first time she felt her heart stop, she understood life would not continue in a manner forgiving of youth. This life that happened, the running, the rejection, the incessant empty that always crept back in— Words hold weight, yet weigh nothing, and harness the power for complete destruction. Just like Schrodinger’s cat, she’s both dead and alive, caught in a realm of possibilities that have simultaneously all passed, and have yet, never occurred. There is no time; there is no list; there is only the infinite now of non-meaning and the morbid curiosity of why.