She never gives a straight answer, always hiding behind a curtain of vague words and round about phrases. She walks in circles, always just out of reach. They call her manipulative, evasive, always twisting what people say to suit her needs, but she’s not like that, not really. She just doesn’t know how not to speak in riddles, how not to build mazes and paradoxical labyrinths with every word she says, because it’s so ingrained into every fiber of her being. It’s a defense mechanism, really, more than anything. When people attack her, when they laugh and scoff at her, she withdraws within herself and spits out sentences that seem to mean everything and nothing all at once. It’s a defense mechanism, because if they can’t find her behind the haziness she’s constructed around herself, they can’t touch her, can’t even hurt her, even if sometimes they’re right when they call her pretentious or false or deceitful. It’s hard to tell which started the other, if she’s like this because they pick apart at her or if they scratch at her until her heart bleeds because she makes mazes. Her life is something of a web of intricacies just like her speech, but she doesn’t know how to do differently, doesn’t know how to stop.

‎Thomas Edison’s last words were: “It’s very beautiful over there.” I don’t know where there is, but I believe its somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful.