so it goes.

the truth is she has become scared of change, of movement, of disturbance and she seeks solid ground.
desperately hoping and wishing that her wall of pretending will entertain someone briefly enough to avoid attachment but long enough to offer something of amusement.

and there we are, at the point where we have to figure out whether or not she really likes him
why she likes him.
as if it were really important
and we suppose it is.

but now we think we've passed the point where things were once amusing and are now dangerously real.
it is no laughing matter.
this is her soul and it is his soul since we don't believe in hearts or sometimes even minds.

she finds herself searching for something in his gaze that is probably not there
and he knows it and she does not want to know it
but she does, so she avoids his eyes because there isn't anything there and there never was going to be.
she should have known it
for from the beginning she would look at him too long and he would demand "what?"
she would reply "what?", batting her eyelashes exactly three times and smiling demurely.
that worked as a distraction long enough.

he called her pretty once.
at least we think so but could never be sure
because the hearing of girls looking for something more is often deceiving.

she guesses the only thing remotely magical between them is probably chemical
and we figure that is how it always has been with most every man or boy
she wonders whether it has ever been something else with anyone else
yes she thinks, there was a time
a person
a place
where there might have been more
but then again the memories of girls looking for things like that are deceiving

humanity is funny like that
remembering the good, casting away the putrid, unruly, and unwanted

for all the time she has spent building mountains of steel round the outside
she has spent more wishing, hoping, and dreaming that someone would climb into it and understand it
and if not, maybe at least appreciate it.
eleven purely conscious years pass and she is still looking for the same thing
that is a long, lonely time to think like that
it is a long time to wait.

she doesn't want to wait any longer
she doesn't want to think that changing this will bring them clarity
she doesn't want to live for them anymore.

a really brilliant man once said something like I don't care what or who influences me, so long as it is not my own self

she's certain he was talking of something different but she's sure she's tried to apply that to her thinking and to her being and she is finding that it does not work out so well because all she has ended up with are fragments and pieces of someone else that don't quite fit together and that no one has been able to spackle together just yet

and she is tired of waiting.