At times, she was a melancholy diety.
Constrained by the ineffable totality of her endless existence.
There was nothing but time, but time sneered at her.
Knowing a secret it dared not utter, in case she were to remember.
They basked in each other’s silence.
She allowed the white-hot screams of beautifully wicked banshees disguised as angels to echo in her bountiful soul.
For she knew that all beings deserved that sacred space within her.
The space within and without us all.
The cries gave her peace, because their vibrations reverberated in her chest and reminded her that indeed she was alive.
She had not disappeared into the catacombs of shadows, but simply dipped her toes in their pools.
It was the yin and yang, the blinding white and endless black.
All encased in one mortal being.
She then woke from her pondering.
It was a Friday.