Perhaps, perhaps

The weather was confused in all ways, the sun was piercing, the clouds were swirling, drops were falling, and the trees were shaking. There she was, propped up against the lively oak, sitting on some odd arrangement in the undisturbed parking lot. She was reading The Last Lecture by Pausch trying to find someone or something to relate to. For the last three days and nights she say there- either writing, reading, or simply but never simply thinking. It was a new place of a peaceful sort, she was still getting used to the idea of actually having to go there. The buildings were painted an odd shade of powder blue and had some character, twelve apartments assigned to each. A few barking dogs here and there, some dropping acorns, and a loud Spanish family was all the noise there was. She was once again wearing the over-sized, grey hooded jacket that was a useful companion in more than shoving the cold away. Fall had invited itself in, night would soon be approaching, and she was cold without a key. She truly didn't mind being outside, she in fact preferred it and her father worked constantly- or so he says, so she had all the freedom in the world.. at least every other weekend. She wasn't a fan of staying inside alone, she thought there were greater things to be seen, greater things to be felt. She had the deepest eyes you ever would see if she let you look long enough, and she watched a mixture of strangers pass by without a word. There was one who wasn't much of a stranger that always made a point to acknowledge her- she appreciated that much and thought he would be a well suited person to hold a conversation with- he had a sum of stories to tell. She wished that people actually stopped and had a conversation with her- perhaps sat with her, she loved talking about anything, she loved hearing about the lives she didn't have the chance to live, about the mistakes she hadn't made yet, and about the people she had met over the years- that type of communication was lost not too long ago in a besieging sea of detachment. She never minded putting down a book or a pen to talk with people, she wished there was a more poetical way to say that they just didn't care. Sure, the phone goes both ways but it wasn't the same concept, maybe a double standard but still differing. She was a lonely soul with so much to give, who enjoyed the simple things like sitting on a splinter bound stump with large nails poking out and throwing acorns across a lot. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps someone would come along and just sit.