Sometimes, she has weird moods.

Let's talk about symbolism, she'll say. Let's talk about perfection, and lackthereof.

Let's talk about death.

Oh, we all know. We watch her, and we know. We know what she's trying to pull. She's reaching for something, reaching for anything, because, like the rest of them, she doesn't know what to pinpoint.

Is it anger? Is it disgust? Is it sadness?

She, like the rest of them, doesn't like to look back. To look back is to peer straight into the abyss, to see things that are frightening, things that are horrifying, things that we can't keep a handle on, things that we can't control.

To look back is to lose the battle, lose the war, lose our mind. We don't look back.

-

Let's talk about chaos. Let's talk about butterflies. Let's talk about pain.

She doesn't know what she's talking about. She desperately wants to touch that not-quite-there feeling she sees, hiding Back There. She wants to brush her fingertips over it, lightly at first, pulling it out, pulling it further into the light where she can learn it. Breathe it. Inhale it and be intoxicated with it. Feel it, and be certain she is feeling it.

Back There holds mist and promises of pain, yet it also holds feelings - if she can get there.

The rest of us, we all fear her. She wants to go back. She wants to look and see.

The rest of us, we'd all rather hide.

-

Sometimes, she thinks we could be better if we ran away.

She hurts us, she says. She causes us pain. And stress. And fear. She hurts.

The rest of us ignore her. We love her too much to run away. We couldn't, we can't. No matter the pain.

It would be better, she says. It could be better!

There isn't much we can do when she has fits. When she wants to reach Back There and pull out memories, and thrust them into our face.

Look! She screams, in our face. Look! Look! Look at this! Look! We could be happy! We could be okay. We could be hurting and it could be beautiful and somehow we'd be okay and--

she sucks in another deep breath. We shake our heads. She fumes with anger, palpable and tangible and we subconciously shift away.

Best to just let her fume.

-

She has fits of sadness too. Fits of sorrow. Cries into her hands and looks for something to make the pain go away, be it pills, razors, her fist. We can try to comfort her then, but she refuses.

I know what I want, she hisses through clenched teeth, tears standing in her eyes. I want to bleed.

The last word comes out low and menacing, always. We back away.

She'll scream sometimes, long howls of despair.

I want to bleed! I want to puke! I want to die!

We don't mean to ignore her then, we really don't. We just don't know what to do.

-

She is the odd one.

Her good moods are when she makes small chitchat, enough to get the fires fueled for Inspiration. She'll say

Let's talk about glory. Let's talk about love. Let's talk about sorrow.

And we know those romantic words, and we gladly bait her, glad for a break in her storm. She'll talk all night. She'll work out weird problems and notice weird things and Inspiration takes them and gives them wings.

Lets them

and her

fly.

-