kara lynn palamas is a tapestry woven from myths, each thread pulling her toward a different fate. like persephone, she is lured into the underworld — not stolen, but reshaped, bound to forces beyond her control. she eats the pomegranate seeds, whether by choice or circumstance, & now straddles two worlds: the life she had & the one she was molded into. but when she returns, does she bring spring, or does winter linger in her footsteps?
she drinks from the river lethe, where memory dissolves like ink in water. the past is washed away, name by name, face by face, until only echoes remain. she is told to forget, to become something new, but the river cannot cleanse everything. some things cling to the soul, no matter how deep they are buried. yet, is she also like mnemosyne, the keeper of memory? for even as the tide of lethe washes over her, there are fragments she refuses to let go.
like arachne, she is a woman of skill, unraveled & rewoven by powers greater than herself. her defiance, her brilliance, do not save her from transformation; they ensure it. & yet, even after being unmade, she still weaves her own fate, strand by strand.
she is orpheus, reaching for the past, only to have it slip through her fingers the moment she looks back. her true self is always just out of reach, a specter of who she once was, vanishing the closer she comes. but unlike orpheus, she is not searching for another. she is searching for herself. & like eurydice, she wonders — was she left behind, or did she simply fade into the dark?
she walks the labyrinth like theseus, following a thread of memory, winding through a maze of identities. each mask is a new corridor, each lie another turn. but who is ariadne in her story? who leaves her the lifeline that might lead her back to herself? or is she alone in the darkness, forced to slay the beast within?
like janus, the god of duality, she exists in the in-between — a woman of many faces, many names, never fully in one place. the past & the future stare at each other across the threshold of her being, & she stands between them, never quite belonging to either.
she is like echo, cursed to repeat only what others give her, her voice reshaped by those in power. she speaks, but are the words truly hers? she calls out into the void, & what returns is a fragmented reflection of herself. & if she is echo, then where is narcissus? is she the one caught in her own reflection, or is it those who have tried to remake her who are staring too long into their own twisted ideal?
she is iphigenia, sacrificed for a war she did not start, her life offered on an altar of necessity. but was she truly sacrificed, or was she like the version of the myth where she was spirited away, changed, & given a new fate? is she still the girl who once was, or has she become something the world never expected?
she is the argo, rebuilt piece by piece, no longer the same woman who first set sail. her memories have been altered, her body controlled, her identity rewritten. but is she still kara lynn palamas? or has she become something else entirely?
like hermes, the trickster & traveler, she moves between worlds — spy & scholar, warrior & ghost. she bears messages, but who is the sender, & who is the true recipient? she wears many faces, speaks many tongues, but beneath it all, who is she really?
like prometheus, she carries fire, something dangerous, something forbidden. perhaps it is knowledge, perhaps it is defiance. but is she the bringer of light, or the one bound to the rock, punished for what she has stolen?
she is all of them & none of them. a hero, a victim, a survivor. a myth in the making.
