Fictional Memoirs: She

She moves in her own way. A drift to astray and sometimes near when she needs air. Her feet hurt from walking all day. Her dark brown eyes wonder from the green lake on her left past the thin white and grey leopard print trees onto the rugged path in front and behind her. Though looking “up ahead” she imagines

the trees around her as a crowd of people speaking vigorously with each other. She hates crowds.  The orange sun setting reminds her of time. The watch wrapped comfortably around her frail wrist ceased ticking.

The second hand seems to sit on the first hand like it does not like its mundane tasks. Each day is the same in the world of a clock. Contained in a glass covering with repeating landmarks passing each second, again and again, the same view. The only source of purpose is the gears underneath, unknown to the hands of the watch. Keeping time is important. She would rather relax than do the important.

“Working like a watch. Yeah. That’s all I do.”

They may feel the movement of the gears but that is all.  It is dark. She wonders if the glass covering is protecting or imprisoning the hands of the watch. It does not matter now.

She moves in her own time. She thinks that she has created this path. She supposes that she understands the concepts imposing themselves on her conscious, on her choice. It is a simple question. It is over done with philosophy and theology. It has been over done before. She will walk her own path. Never before have her deeds been replicated or precedented. It is difficult to see her next step. She values wit before worry and treks further in.

Continuing with out time, her self recognition begins to fade. What is there to measure with but the resting hands of time? She breathes out slowly and closes her eyes. When she opens them she has found a friend with a light to her answers. Nature has bad taboos. She breaks taboos.  The leaves rustle sarcastically.



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