A thought...

The girl walks her solitary path. She wears a blood red gown, a symbol of her passion, though the gown is invisible to all but those that know her. All others see a simple gown of blue or green. She does not always walk alone: often others come and touch her dress, leaving their mark on her mind and passion. She will never forget them. Even the cruelest, the most heartless and violent, she remembers them with an odd love. She should forget them, leave them, but it is always they that leave her. She does not know whey she can't take the words "good-bye" when they come out of her own mouth. They don't sound so atrocious from the others, and she never cries when she finds herself once again alone. For she knows that if those words did not come, she would never break the bond, and they would be together always. Sometimes she wonders if this would be good, but then another comes, more benevolent or vile than the rest. Each extreme touches, her, teaches her, guides her, and she would never do without either. In an never-ending pattern she drifts, her feet her guide and her mind her companion. Her soul remembers past pain and joy, but all she knows now is what is. More often than not, no one walks at her side, but it might be better that way.

The girl knows she's coming to a fork in the road. Which should she take? She knows where the paths immediately go, but she cannot see what will come in the end. All those who hear of the roads misinterpret them, think that the options she contemplates are of a far different nature. For who would guess where her road - her own road - will go? Only she that creates it of dust and tears knows what she has wrought. What draws her on? The hope that one day someone will not say "good-bye" and that she will not be alone. And if she does not find that? Well, there is always another heart, another road, another life. Sometimes a soul is meant to be alone.

The fork is within her sight now, and she tries to press forward more quickly, but that only tires her out more quickly. She stops to rest, and it feels as though the fork recedes, though it is only about a hundred feet away now. When she reaches the fork, she looks at the signs. Misleading, but they reveal the riddle to her. Then a dust storm blows, obscuring the far ends of the paths. Which way should she take? There is always a right and a wrong path, one would think. But in this case, the paths are clearly unmarked with a moral value. It is completely up to her to decide. She sits at the crossroads, contemplating her next move.

I am she that sits at the crossroads, and I shall be here until the dust clears and I can determine which path is mine to take.

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God damn it, I hate when my mind comes up with stupid extended metaphors for an aspect life. I figured I'd put it down because then maybe it will leave me alone.