At this moment, she is the unanimous villain.
She is a sunken cost fallacy; a languid set of eyes remains depleted coming home to her.
There is no elation under the guise of such constrained exoneration of a girl who refuses to take the blame; the mirrors are turned towards the wall; they are too ruminative—too introspective—for someone who cannot face the reflection staring back.
Nothing done can be undone.
She is pensive of everything that everyone has ever said to her, letting go of things as easy as a child lets go of their mother. An illicit glance ignites a landslide of thought; never untouched, never unbent, never immune to weight—skin thin like paper and eyes glossed like glass. She wishes she could not remember as well as she does.
Nothing said goes unnoticed.
She is told that perception is oftentimes reality, yet, so it seems, perception is only relative to those on the outside. Can she not discern herself as the zealot, the misrepresented altruist in the story? Or is she discerned by the bypasser who labels her a coward? Is being an individualistic self-seeker just an optimistic front of calling oneself an egoist? She wonders, most often, when it is okay to be selfish. Before the tempest, she contemplates if her self-proclaimed vessel of rescue is doing more harm than good and if the harm being done is selfish in itself. Is it selfish to submit to struggle? Can selfishness save one from struggle?
Most things remain unacknowledged.
She wonders how much of what lies before her is philosophically true. Is everything simply a paradox? Is everyone just self-reflecting to some extent? Most profoundly, she wishes that self-awareness did not need to be spoken. She hopes not to dwell on her thoughts by speaking them into existence. Her conscience will always beat her plea; she has sat patiently with her shortcomings long before someone has forced them out of her. She has been aware of her defects long before someone on the outside looking in became aware of them.
Clarity is easily distorted.
She wonders what will die with her at her grave. She wonders which versions of herself she will be remembered by—which unyielding dialogue, which battle of tongues, will win in the end? Will it be her reality? Or someone else’s? When all is said and done, will what is said and done be too little? Or too much? She wishes to know if this complexity is all just a waste of space. She wishes to know if the days are less restricted when one is not bound by such internal exploration.
For she knows that nothing she says makes sense.
Nothing I say makes sense.