She doesn’t have any plans for her future, nor does she want to make any.
She lives by the moment, dictated by the circumstance.
She hates her awareness of time, yet concedes to its constancy.
She doesn’t subscribe to any ideology; she doesn’t believe in society.
She doesn’t believe in the gods of any religion, yet is passionate about faith and sees its necessity.
She never makes any pretensions; and abhors duplicity, but is patient nevertheless of its being an innate human trait.
She is tactful, yet insensitive at the same time.
She could be impulsive, obsessive, and submissive. Not necessarily in that order.
She devours books even as words devour her emotions and tramples her being.
She sings as she weeps and dances as she screams.
She writes. Her poems and lyrics and stories speak of order in chaos and the twisted symbiosis of love and hate.
She demands freedom and justice for herself, yet her eyes burn at the sight of the others suffering.
She is easily misinterpreted, for her thoughts are always, at the very least, two steps ahead of everyone.
She sees you, sees where your path leads and where it has to end.
Him. He is a wallpaper. A fly on the wall.
Insignificant yet omniscient.

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