a story to(o) many

one:

a genuine disinterest provokes my protagonist from giving her best. as a result, she fails as a professional, but her arguments to herself help her live it through, guilt-free.

two:

she belonged to a netherworld of characters and plots. she exhumed an otherworldliness. she loved. she feared. she lived. she was a binary of excess. perhaps a natural. all her life, 'being' was her favourite subject, while she spent becoming it.

three:
she took the grandmotherly pace to arrive at what she was meant to do -- thankfully, she also liked to do it. and with that grandmotherly air of assurance, she cultivated the faith, sometimes far-sighted, at other times, blind. but a grandmother always has the grand enemy of time. she too did.

four:

my protagonist had a super-active heart. it went wild -- galloping over anxiety, chasing sweet nothings. it was an organ of fascination, sometimes even challenging the decorated mess of her mind. the only concern was that it ran too quick, and left her breathless.

five:

a choc-a-bloc of fancy, an armory of aesthetics, a procrastinating perfectionist, a rubble of remains, a fair of affairs, a garden of wilderness -- my protagonist.

six:

now. now was the time, where she, like me, aligned with the essence of detachment. now was when she walked back the tightrope towards them, them who she created, them who puppeted her movements. now.

now was a never, forever.