The Muddly Undergrowth

She bought her status with kind favors done to others. Nevermind what she really wanted. She is a tragedy of loneliness. Of a bit of despair. You don't see it on the outside. On the outside she's loud, clear and engaging. But on the inside she needs. Needs the thing that tells her yes. The sign from a friend that she is fine and needn't buy the luck of the day. She has herself, which she carries across the distance, but she hasn't found it to be a worthy vessel. How could she not? She has forgotten so much that many moments are undecided and torturous. She sits in herself unsure. Waiting to know. Not knowing still. If she catches a quick smile, she's encouraged, but of course it's not enough. She hasn't found what is within that sparks all lights. She hasn't found that place of steady gaze and realization. She has found much, and there is much still to find. She is not truly lost. She simply has to remember. And sometimes she needs help. She will do it alone, but she needs now and again a poke from the outside to remark upon what she has builded. They are not weak, these fibers she has woven. Appearances are not all to see about them. She has the onward glance and only needs to find that yes that is within. Onward is the only direction. She knows, and she will find.

Hills be praised.