Ripped

She rushes into her room.

Her boots thud, leaving wet shoe marks on the wooden floor. The door slams close quite as loud as the pattering rain. She looks around her, vexed at the beauty and fun embedded in the strokes of the plastered paintings and face sketches, the curve at the end of the vines she painted on her walls, and those colors she patiently filled the windows with for three different days.

She dashes to a wall, grabs one of the sketch pads, and rips it apart. Forcibly. Once. Twice. Thrice. Many times. Her hands move whilst her eyes closed, looking at the darkness within her. She then grabs another, rips it. Each masterpiece is torn, reduced to pieces on the floor.

It is all for nothing.

Useless.

Senseless.

She cannot understand a thing, especially herself. She thought she was right, but she had it all wrong. All wrong. She just can’t trust herself anymore. She fought for those colors, and it didn’t fight for her. They brought her nowhere beyond this room, served solely as proofs of her confused, undecided mind.

She falls on her feet, her face in her hands.

No tears are coming out. Just none.

She looks up and caught sight of her sketch of the bearded Man. For some reason, that seems enough to get a flicker of light at night.

There’s just no stopping anywhere. Not here. Not now.

She looked around to see what remained of the beauty, of fun. If it’s not any of this, she has to decide what is. She got to be firm on the path she chooses to tread, and she will have to keep walking – crawl if she may – come hell or high water.

She has to know what to keep, and stick with that.

And until the evening of life, she got to keep it whole.

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