and, not the end

She lays on the silky sheets staring at the ceiling fan and her mind translating certain events of the day, the month, the year and the life. How many times, she plays the same series of events in her mind again and again and every time reach to a different conclusion. Any of these conclusions have not been able to mend her bleeding soul or the bruised body. She yawns. She smiles- oh dear, this sadness is so boring.