Girls

Her imagination had failed her. It was hard to say exactly when, but it was possible to draw a definite line between the glowing ambitions of the 14 year-old girl and her 24 year-old counterpart. The girl had the sense to resist the influence of her mother, for one. The girl had known that the mother was crazy, and though a loving mother, and one to be loved in return, not the type of mother who is a good example on how to live your life. Certainly not the type of mother into who's hands you put your life like so much clay to be molded and fire-hardened.

The 24 year-old version did not know these things.

She had been sidetracked. She had been hurt. She had looked for shelter, but found none. Her imagination failed her when she failed to realize that if you don't see shelter, it is always an option to make some. Instead, she had returned to live beneath the mother's wing, and all that the mother asked in return was that she hand over her un-sculpted clay-life. The 24 year-old refused to address the error in doing so. But such is weakness, and we all know it well.

And what can a sideline observer do to alter this burning course in self-destruction? Bear witness? The imperfections in the observer form gigantic crater-like blemishes on the plane of their relationship. The greatest imperfection is not knowing how to span them.

The relationship is doomed to die. The Observer and the 24 year-old with the once-beautiful imagination. When you are 24 and tell people that something inside of you has died, as if that's not news, tragic, or anything but matter-of-fact... what is left to save? You have already moved beyond even grieving for the dead thing inside of you. One can only hope that it's a winter-time death, but if you're telling them, then it's because they are not your Spring. They cannot bring it back to life. The Observer is not the 24 year-old's Spring. What is left to say?

The 24 year-old cuts glances at the Observer with such slitted little eyes. She is weary of her witness. She is irritable and weary of everything around her, and her once-beautiful imagination is shriveled inside of her, a tender bud faced with winter cold.