A tale of 12 minutes

We have finally come to our wits end about something to write, and it goes without saying that our claim to wit is deeper than our claim to words. Which leaves us with just a blind desperation to put something-anything to paper, to reaffirm our assertion that we still exist.

The recent past has taught us quite a bit about her: We have learned that she is prone to judgment, much as she may claim otherwise, and that she forms her opinions about people purely on some nonsensical semblance of 'what she thinks they are capable of being' rather than what they are.

We have also learned that she is a masochist when it comes to the opposite gender. For her to openly acknowledge that she is unwilling to take first-steps or chances with someone because of a lingering fear that it wont be idyllic is pathetic, and she appears to thrive on it.

Also we have discovered that she does believe in fairytale endings, even as a great part of her considers them trite. This is the only notion that would explain her near-manic disappointment at discovering that Jane Austen's real life romance was -to put it plainly- 'A bust'. She is determined to be alone, and simultaneously complain about feeling lonely...which is turning her into a damned nuisance.

We have seen her finally come to terms with her faith however, in discovering the pleasure that comes with not-knowing for a change. Where as until now it had only been the slumps of hopelessness, she is now appreciating the glamour of residing between the canvas of questions not asked and not answered.

She has also begun to take an active interest in her life, we believe it has finally hit her that she needs to carve out paths for herself through an initiative that is relying on her to be called upon. Even though she has never really thought about wealth consciously, she is the first to admit that she has never really had to. Perhaps this is why she is now coming to terms with reality and practicality, we are surprised at how she is not falling apart as her illusions shatter.

These days she spends her time listening to old Guthrie bootlegs; watching animated feature films and Justice League re-runs; reading Machiavelli purely so she can use the expression 'Machiavellian' and she cannot seem to do so without knowing the man impersonally; sorting through old photographs and crying with older memories; reading her old writings while compiling them into some semblance of sense. We think that the loss of her Muse may be killing her. She contemplates dead-ends actively now.

She is searching for inspiration with a vengeance it seems... in the short span of three days we have seen her tackle her paint box and put together 11 pairs of earrings from old beads and tassels, paint an oil canvas, glaze a pot, sit in the rain and even tinkle with her guitar.

We wish she would just go to sleep like she used to, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by a flurry of waiting words.