As far as we get jumping.

One-paragraph short story. Please review, say if you like anything, be critical, be respectful.

She faced an indescribable anguish while she contemplated the pitch black hole, deciding whether to jump or not. She, such a “pretty little girl”, as mother says, ashamed all over, for her cowardice; it wasn’t like jumping would be a definite solution to her troubles, and that kept her at bay, unresolved. Why was the sky so blue, now? She looked around: the grass was wet, and shiny with blinding summer sunshine; the air was clear, and she could feel the breeze over her face, its cold touch kissing her eyelids, now closed. She was thinking. Mother, mother, your pink and blue garments in this sun covered morning. So dry, and soft; what a smell you have that I can just remember it anytime, any day, cold or warm, humid or baking the asphalt of the street. Why jump, really? Was it the pang of feeling always down, down below as at the bottom of that pitch black hole, so trodden by the sore glances of the others? Them, all too happy, all to merry and laughable and talkative and brilliant as the dew reflected light in this very, very bright day; all too excluding, and harsh, and cold, and inscrutably dark and pushy. Why am I not a part of their game? Why have I never been, though? I was able to hide it for some time now, but I am on the very edge--literally. Sure, I have had a couple friends. They have been nice and caring. They have come to me when I had been crying. But are they any use now, when I am alone, when they--as good as they are, surely they would be busy, for they have more friends-- are not here? I all too frequently forget: peoples’ names, peoples’ faces and hair color and the way they walk and how they speak; but I have noticed others pay so much attention to that, to these little things. People are a bunch of liars, really. I may be a liar too, but I am able to tell I am one, others just like to believe their making ups. Once, I think it was during a dream --I confuse dreams and real life-- I went with my best friend, down under one of these…pitch black holes. Of a different sort, they are, but still sort of the same concept. Large dark deep unexpected things. We had lots of fun, rolling around and laughing, although she liked to lick my face, and I just don’t like that. I don’t usually like saliva, it has a funny smell. Funny funny funny; my thoughts are really running through, as they never have. I wonder if they have got any value…I always think I am thinking nice, smart things; but once, my English teacher said we always think we think dashingly, and we do not, and we go on repeating the same lame, lazy ideas all over, to tell ourselves a story, and feel who we are. And also that we are always  making and creating a lot of meaning"that’s what she said: making and creating" out of small, tiny details in things, but I did not understand that. I guess I am just being sad, though, I’ll go jump into this trampoline; as a matter of fact I have always  liked jumping in them, and seeing how the pitch black fabric stretches, and makes you bounce back.

(There comes mommy)

Author's Note

Is it understandable?
Did the ending change your reading?
Any suggested proofreading?

Lots of Love.

Reviews

[meganwheeler]

I really like the beginning, I think you could definitely develop this into a great story. I just feel like there was a little too many ideas, all great, and it was organized that well. I'd say you could have a great piece with a little editing and organization of ideas:)
just a few grammatical things:
"its cold touch kissing her eyelids, now closed.She was thinking. Mother, mother, your pink and blue garments in this sun covered morning. " could probably be a little reworded, it was a little hard to read

what a smell you have that I can just remember it anytime, any day, cold or warm, humid or baking the asphalt of the street.- I would probably get rid of the "what" so it is just talking about the smell itself.

Why have I never been, though? => Why have I never been?