Yet Another Blog

Today finds me right smack in the middle of hell week, er finals week I should say.

Here's something I wrote last night; not really sure if it makes sense or that it is abe to convey what I had in mind but I thought I'd post it anyway.

*

She sat on the floor, almost pained from staying in one position for so long a time. But she felt no pain. She stared blankly into the clock, her facial expressions changing as often as her thoughts. In a cool wide floor as this is where her stories begin, with dances and princes and balls. On the cool wide floor as this is where her stories end. But in a cool wide floor as this is where her story ends, or so she hopes. Her stories are her life. Her life is her stories. She spins on the floor, bedecked in her own glamour and her own majesty. On a cool wide floor is where it all began, and on a cool wide floor is where it all ends.
She is on the floor, eagle-like, limbs out stretched, grasping for the nothingness around her. She knows the value of nothing, for nothing is where she gets her stories, and nothing is what she makes beautiful. Her facial expressions continue to change; clearly she is enjoying her stories as if she read them to an audience of café-goers, engaging in it as if she were the story itself. Indeed she is. Indeed they are.
She is the floor, cradled in her thoughts. Her stories are her comfort, her stories are her warmth. She has always made her own comfort, of the beauty she weaves into the outstretched barren land she knows as paper. She dances around on the virgin sheet; her bare heels clicking on the cool wide floor. But in a cool wide floor as this is where her story ends, or so she hopes. Her stories are her life. Her life is her stories. Yet in the smallness of the space between the two is a dream, resting and radiating with her now, beneath her stories, dancing across the cool wide floor of which she is mistress. There she will remain until another story begins.
*

not so sure about that last line.