She didn't want to write about herself. Her fingers hesitated above the keys. She felt a welling of anxiety in her chest as she brought them down to type it out: She didn't want to write about herself.
She typed it out, and she read it. With an exhale, she leaned back in her chair, eyes searching the room for something more comfortable to do. But there was nothing. Those first few sentences were her toes in the pool, and tentatively she slid her body into the water.

Her problem was an unusual one. Or maybe a very average one. That was the problem: everything she thought about; every little conundrum; was too damn grey.

She contemplated the very idea of what she was doing. She had a solid thought about it, but it fled her mind. Then it came back. String of consciousness, she thought. And she decided narrating her inner monologue was a fair idea. Fair, not good. Monologue, not dialogue. Why those things?

This was why she took such pleasure in tangible things- things she could hold in her hands. Though perhaps pleasure wasn't the best word. It was more of a desperate solace, rather than comfort. Needless to say, tactile things were real and objective. That's why she enjoyed her snakes. They were simple and pretty. Small, deliberate predators, elegant in design and execution. No need for love, or pondering. Just mice. The boa in her shirt stirred.