She finds herself unable to reach the normal locus of inner calm. Previously an undiminishing well of sanctuary now a devestating void. Grey hands reach out and grasp but to no avail. Sheer frustration at lifes unending insecurities. Lack of commitment from others leaves life hovering around her, feet clear off the ground unable to find the gentle solice of earth.
The well has been drained by weeks and weeks of insecurity. Token gestures of care not enough to sustain the drain of everyone elses self pity.
A slap from a friend, a backhand from an employer, and with a mirror held up to every weakness, already shaken and vulnerable, the final blow - he lets her down.
Yearning has grown too strong again. Detatch. Damn it detatch. But oh! She does pine to be held in someones arms and cared for like the babe so regularly neglected by the perpetual adult.
So much potential and yet wasting away in this den of iniquity. For shame.
She desperately needs to have some fun. bring forth the Medusa, woman scorned, bitter and dangerous. The night of deamons awaits and the gorgon intends to let her hair fly free.
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