"I struggle to find my niche," she said, sprawled languidly across the length of the soft, velvet chaise-lounge, "What lies within me? How do I coax it out?"
Somewhere in the background, muted sounds of the television; the Pope is dying on CNN.
"I have lived out more than a quarter of my life - but what have I lived through? Nothing has left a permanent stamp. Nothing, which needs to be washed out with ink." She pulls on the long, thin cigarette that dangles from her lips, "Everything is...wispy...gone before I can give it form and character...(mon dieu, the tummy rumbles...is it lunchtime already)? If only I could be faithful to what roams in my recesses..."
With each sigh of resignation, she releases a perfect wave of smoke that swims across the room and quickly dissipates, "If only it were that simple - that I could exhale, and the Truth in all its splendour, would be set free." She enjoys watching the shapes, the simple act of liberating her breath, make. They remind her she is capable of higher thought, of recognizing the identity of things beyond their literal meanings.
She stubs out the last burning bits of her cigarette and stretches out luxuriously, ensuring no tension remains in any inch of her body. "It is so uncomfortable to live with the knowledge that genius could lie within."
With that she rolls onto her side, sinking deeper into the belly of the couch. In a while, the soft, sophisticated purr of slumber fills the silence.2nd April 2005