hansel

The dial on her internal monologue is damaged. "It must have broken in the move," I thought, incorrectly it would seem. I must have shaken her far too heavily. The sprockets bounced from every pore, sprawling en masse with certain, deft romantic glee. She has clockwork repetition, glamorous, and unbiased; another set of concrete symmetry building along a tight thread of twisted wires and forget-me-nots. We were too many pieces bending at the corners. She is tired of merely sending out her ghost signal, running through these semblances of synapses, the ones we forgot to fire.

Tonight she was guilty of dramatizing the mediocre, illuminating certain aberrations of truth to build an ark, an artifact of awareness. "This is our telephone game," she would later tell me, huddled against the bathroom sink. "We learn to believe in truth through repetition, the careful building of a repeating theme to justify our existence."

Not even God could have talked her out of it. As if it were left base, it could build and scream, proclaim it's being through will. What could have been the force of it? An idea thats thrown 1000 times readily to splat against the dying bar stools of our imaginations. All the while she loves to feel this way, to feel it because she has to. Like moths love flame, like lemmings to their fate, she was attracted to what could destroy her, not because she was self-destructive, no, because the evidence of the damage had proven she had existed at all. That no stone had been unturned, the spontaneous violence of living had left its mark. It's funny how heroes always love a siren.