I'm the only one who knows this story. Goodnights whispered into empty nights. I'm the one who suffers it, the one who loves it. Because if it weren't this sad, it wouldn't be this beautiful. It's like the tales they tell you, of flowers that wilt before they bloom. Except that in this version, the story teller is silently internalizing the whole plot. And looking out from within, while turning deeper inward still. Into the places they all write about and glorify in pieces of literature. Off to the places otherwise unrecognized unless one is falling into them, until the secrets are spelled out in words and ink. And even then, still, mostly they entirely miss it. Not many left who still read in between the lines. It's another one of her abstractions, they'll say. This is yet another moment which she chooses to be detached from, they'll conclude. Not detached. This isn't detached. This is immersed to the deepest level, to an almost relative absolute. These are the tides beneath the layer of serenity, these are the fires that burn underneath the skin. This is the chaos, and torment, and trapped condition of longing, silenced only by the glamouries worn, until the veils wear thin.
