It scared her, lack of ambition. To do nothing and everything at a monotonous job, she could not. Her life was like that dream of running through the same room over and over again, because the exit out leads back in. She wanted passion in occupation, but this she knew not. She knew to write though, so she wrote.

She wrote about her life and her problems. She wrote her opinions and beliefs. She made them reality. Documented, they were not the petty peeves of a futureless adolescent. Her downfalls were tangible and consequential. It assured her that she was an important person with real problems.

One day, she decided to write an article to a literary magazine: her effort at ambition. She waited for weeks, so long that she wanted any answer. Finality is better than suspense, even if the news is ill pleasing. She waited until she forgot; life caught up to her. Then, she received the letter of decline, so she rode.

She knew of nothing else; so, she tried again. This time to a youth journal, she wrote a short story. She remembered and suffered through weeks that seemed like eternity; fate was fooling her consciously. Then, it came, so she rode. She rode with cars threatening, the wind fighting, and the sun melting her skin. Then, she was at the cemetery, for it was a place of death, and her heart was dying. It was also a place of consolation.

Then, she left for life was calling. Slow at first, she pedaled into the forceful wind and against the glaring sun. The hill strained her; however, she rode hastily. She pedaled faster until her legs fell off and her mouth couldnąt breathe for strength. She rode though she felt like stopping, against her will. She rode until she conquered, and then she knew.