It’s times like these which always made her wonder why she’d even bothered to pretend, or pretended to bother. It was all so banal; the way her mind was evoked by the most minimal of detail and how she joined the universal consensus of it being a sign of intellect, then rebelling against it to find some sense of self-worth hiding along the labyrinthine ways of post-adolescent self-discovery, a discovery that has never come in yield.
She lived, though. Day in and day out, clueless, combing her brittle hair into fragments and pulling her scalp along. Wearing, swearing, drinking, inhaling, and daftest of all: being unabashedly in love. The object of her affection never mattered, never will. It was love that she loved, in the grandest subtle ways and in the cheapest grand ways. She felt kind, even superior, and graced herself with the virtue of giving regardless of it being something of no use, and certainly of no need. It was the globe of chronic love in which she lived that was troubling the most. Enchanted by it all, she’s gone, until a fragment appeared, and the banality, again, reigned over.
How pointless it all was, she could never grasp. Something must have meant something and therefore it came to be something, she believed. Even though she was certain of the collective of the Universe but not of one specific element of it, she still acted like the Universe had her best interest at heart, and with no consideration to any or all, she fell in a perpetual state of inaction; marvelling, pointless, silently in love.
She hoped that by the means of repression and regression, she’d know her way along those labyrinthine passages. The stillness, hard as she tried, never cleared the path.