On the cusp of her imagination, the fringes of her mind lie stories of elves and giants, of lovers and villians, of passions and remorse. These stories slowly seep into her brain and she cannot help but think of them as a curse for she is left persistently unsatisfied by reality. She wants more of the drama of the imaginary lives that dvelve in her head and therefore shuns reality consistently, waiting for fantasy to come to life.
Where is her lover? Where is her happiness? Where is the peace of mind? The contentedness that comes after fighting for the soul? Where is the anger? The jealousy? The passion and the hope that marks a life well lived?
Anything but this boredom. This feeling of uselessness. Before she knows it she will be too old. She will be a mother. A wife. A grandmother. And then gone. Where is the wildness? The Wutheringheights-ness of it all?
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