MISTAKES OF HER YOUTH

The decades indicated steps were needed and she proceeded one the other, bounding and some floundering. Falling and stalling, surging and merging, seeking and asking directions mostly from strangers turning into manipulated formulated emotions... really.

The decade pointed to solitude, and she abided. Closed up, closed in, closed everything so that the silence would indeed offer the promised salve to wounds still seeping, weeping. Her habit rustling as she paced rooms and wrote words on walls just to remind herself life was not love - and love was not for this life of hers.

The decade said, "Wake up, there's a new King in the making," and she, picking up pen and tapping keys met yet another stranger and began to colour him, bestow on him, define within the mystery of him some history. The pattern, see... the pattern see... he fit the pattern see therefore - he fit her?

The decade pushed for this disclosure. So she gave up and she gave in and knocked till she was heard. He took her in and fed her hunger - small, small bites, case she choked on too much, too soon. Yet woken, hungrily and thirstily she gorged and she said, "More! I need more!" for only in digesting and in expelling could she feel satisfied - and for the first time gratified.

For she had come full circle.

Whatever lesson, it went unheeded back when learning it would have mattered; now she is floundering and an astounding, abounding revelation settles down on her form. She sings with early morning birds and whispers untold thoughts. Nights are no longer dreams, they speak of other things... beings reunited like some out of place and time myth weaved in a tapestry of twilights.

You, the One who has morphed into another in this circuitous stepping forth, you who present her every failure and her worth - you are not here. Patterns repeating and repeating and she is wandering, wondering why the digital kiss woke her and took her and dropped her amid the old, old fear. If she was wrong once, then wrong shall she be twice. Suffice to say there's nothing for her here.

The decade points to a fork ahead. One step in that direction and two steps back she takes. Invents distractions, invests time fractions and ingests impossible perfections - like a child staring at a wondrous shooting star and thinking it an arrow shot by Gods... not caring if it hits the target or does not, the wonder being the ache. The wonder of it all.

For in this coming to a full circle she feels the aftermath of every wrinkle caused by - and those paused by - her intuition. There is only one thing, only three words - not the ones she holds, not those delicate decades-long in the making words - there is only this, only these words:

"Let me go..."