Jul 16, 2024
yellow balloon
It isn't like a fog exactly. More like she is watching things with binoculars, or talking over static, long distance. More like she became unhooked, somewhere, from her life. This cannot be her, spewing the metaphysical at every turn. She has become someone else, someone she doesn't recognize, a bundle of sluggish synapses, ineffective education, tears.
She is dim Rapunzel cloistered in the tower, waiting, waiting. She isn't sure what to do. Her walls have always been of her own making.