She is hardly transparent. In fact, an invisible flaming brick wall surrounds her sometimes.
A wall covered in postulates and logical trains of thought. She pins her hair up and lazy strands escape her grasp. Rolling up cardigan sleeves, wrist tattoo revealed: Think first.
The front door opens and bursts of light coupled with heavy summer air infiltrate the very bounds of her senses. The world can’t be ready. It isn’t ready. A young girl burning. A Heraclitus in theory. A weeping philosopher in soul. A heart made of stone. Reflections of a self that I loved.