Fragments

"I'm half sick of shadows, too" she whispers into the night, accidentally reading aloud from one of her favorite books. If only she could be the Lady of Shalott...

The words to her songs don't really mean much anymore, do they? The same ones always bring those worthless tears while others strike a chord and force her to think. Force her to remember. She wants to start fresh, in her own skin, and be known for the woman she's become.

Memories that normally evade her have come to haunt these hallowed grounds; emotions she thought she'd never feel have raised their flag upon the fortress. The conflict within her is remarkable, some say, but she can't see why. There's nothing special about confusion.

Survival--so basic, so trivial--has become her only necessity. Live through the next year. The next month. The next week, day, hour, minute...

It's not that she'll suddenly up and die; it's that she fears the morbid atrophy that comes with living tough. With living for the long run.

"I'll do it all tomorrow," she whispers, closing the book and staring at the ceiling. "I'll do everything that I've put off. All the work, all the plans, all the everything..."

And when she's finally through with all her empty promises, she curls in on herself, slashing through the hard exterior. She's not as strong as she thought; no, even the most convincing confidence can't fool her into thinking that she's durable.

Feeling fragile and weak, she slams her eyes shut and tries to sleep. With the loss of consciousness comes a small sense of relief--no one will find her here. Come what may from the outside world, she can have her freedom in her dreams. Entirely liberated, she does what she wants, not what is expected of her.

There's a mirror there, tall and polished, the few scratches standing out from the otherwise perfect glass. She leans in to see her reflection, to catch a glimpse of what she is.

"I see not what I wish to see; I see instead a mere glimmer of what I've been," she mutters, furious with what meets her eye. The glass simply snickers and stalks off to bother another victim.

She sits in the grass and tries not to feel the bafflement, the confusion flowing through her veins. So much of her is tied to the reality--the work, the society, the world--and yet a decent portion has been long dedicated to the imaginary. So much of her is lost...

As she sits upon the cool, dewy grass and pretends not to feel, the fragments of her very soul divide themselves, splitting her up and shattering her sense of normality. She can't help it; she's too weak to fight the separation, too broken to resist.

She awakens to the darkness of another winter morning, and paradox eats at her heart. The greatest tragedy of mankind has now befallen her.

Those who hang from the cliff by a thread will never have the courage to let themselves go, while those who freely walk the surface can always choose to jump.

You'll be surprised what she'll survive when she gives herself no choice but to live.