Thanks again,
Stephanie

She floats aimlessly with no destination in mind. She doesn’t remember how or why she decided that this should be the way to live her life. Her elders would shake their heads, assuming that such a lack of ambition was typical of only the very young and naive. But she knows that it was more than that. It was fear. Fear of what, she’s not quite sure. Failure? Disappointment, perhaps? Or how about rejection?
Floating slowly, she willingly gives up the right to complain about her stops along the way. Wherever she may be, she arrived there free of expectations so that she can never be disappointed. All the while, there is the tiniest of nagging thoughts whispering in the back of her mind. She has ignored it successfully so far, but somehow it continues to grow. One day it will make itself felt with the gut-wrenching realization that she will eventually reach a point in which her boat will turn. It will turn around in such a way that she has no choice but to see where she has been, as well as where she could have gone.

She will face her apathetic existence. Her non-choices were, in themselves, choices.

Two bodies of water run parallel and she chose to just go with the easy tide, riding it as long as she could.

Until she reached

The End.

This post features The Lady of Shalott, painted by John William Waterhouse.

I can hear them coming. The familiar sound of hooves and wooden wheels that always signals a month of dread has again come my way. The yearly visit. Laughing silly sisters with beautiful faces and little brains. They drip with jewels as they bestow their good graces on Father and I. The Father who raised us all and whom I am expected to care for until he dies.

I like my life. I enjoy my solitude. It is only in the presence of my sisters that I feel the pricklings of doubt about the path my life has taken. True, I do not have a rich husband, or any husband for that matter. I do not regret that, since I know full well that none of my sisters love their husbands. They love their money and the position it gives them. I don’t believe that their husbands love them either. I have always pictured them as handsome men that were giggled and flirted into submission during courtship. When will men realize that silly ignorance that seems adorable in a nineteen year old girl will cease to be attractive when she is a thirty-five year old woman with the same simpering habits?
I am alone with my books and art. I have few friends, but they are loyal companions.

And I have myself. I am content with the knowledge that I know who I am and what I value in life. That is something that my sisters can never say.

This post features The Mother of Sisera Looked out a Window, painted by Albert Moore in 1861

I’ve always been aware of their presence. But my relationship with you was so tender and young that I felt it best to ignore them, to pretend that they did not exist. I realize now what my mistake was. Like a lot of young girls, I made your beliefs more important than my own. I was vulnerable and alone. I felt that solitude was my enemy. Now I know it is dear, sweet friend.

So the thoughts and feelings that I buried when young, the elusive and mythical beasts that I ignored for the convenience for others, are welcome now. They are a part of me in a way that you never should be. Not because I’ve excluded you, but because you never understood me to begin with. You chose your place with the others and now you must discover your own place in the world.

It’s funny, really.To think that once upon a time I believed that I should ignore and bury what I could plainly see simply because you were incapable of seeing it too.
I can not tell you how I broke the spell. Time, I guess. I grew up. I gathered wisdom with age. I learned to listen. I shed my security blankets.

Now I understand. Your opinion did not matter to me, as it was based on your own past experiences. And your experiences do not apply to me. Some day you will find the one that they are applicable to. I wanted you, and I thought that it would be admitting failure if I said that I did not agree with you.

But now you are my past. I can accept the parts of me that I was afraid of before. I can see the mythical. I can embrace the folklore of my being. I am my own story. I love my past and my future because it is mine. It is wholly my own.

I no longer need you to validate what I see.

Art in this post by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898) The Unicorns

A wise man once said, “When your thoughts are in the past, then you are in the past.” Perhaps he meant it to be helpful. Or perhaps it was a curse. Either way, I am here now with my present and my past merging into one endless loop that I cannot break away from. It is not that I lack the strength or desire. It is will power. It is the broken record of my mind. Dwelling on the past has simply become a habit.

I will break the mirror. No matter how strong the pull, I shall tear my gaze away from these shadowy figures that haunt me. I will no longer give them life. They will wither away and die. With the past. Their long tentacled fingers of thought can reach me no more. Nevermore.

I will replace this habit with a new one.

We’ll see how long it lasts.

Art in this post is I’m Half-Sick of Shadows (The Lady of Shalott) by by Sidney Harold Meteyard

It’s all an illusion that they have created. The feelings that they profess to feel so deeply don’t even exist. She’s so caught up in excitement and apprehension that it has never occurred to her that she should wonder if it is he that she loves, or merely the thrill of having this delicious secret from the rest of the world. Stolen moments that seem so precious will invariably become sordid in the light of a new day. She will grow to hate herself, to feel sick to realize what she has become. With each visit, she is aware that a sense of emptiness has become palpable in her life.
And what does he feel?

Nothing. This is just another episode of a game that he will continue to play.

Art featured in this post: Forest Tryst by Edmund Blair Leighton 1853-1922

She was not the first to try to deceive us. Appearances can be deceiving, but not to those who live a life removed from the world. I suppose she saw us as innocents, secluded from the dangerous world from whence she came. How she underestimated us. She swept into the world that we had created with the purpose of destroying it. She searched for one, not realizing that it would mean attacking us all.

We did not give her that chance.

Like I said, she was not the first. My fellow sister and I, we dig her grave because we have done it before. We each have our jobs here. We know our duty. We do not have to seek out those who betray us. We wait for them to reveal themselves.

As I dig, I look furtively over my shoulder. I can not help it. As I have mentioned, she was not the first.

I assume she will not be the last.

The Vale of Rest Painted by Sir John Everett Millais in 1858-59.

I’m in. Any nervousness I may have felt during my journey was wasted, for they didn’t seem to question me at all. They have welcomed me with open arms. Vulnerable and willing open arms. In fact, my nervousness has quickly been replaced by disdain for all the foolish naivety that I’ve encountered since my arrival. But I must set that aside. I shall ignore the stupid, sheepish looks I receive from the other women here. They are misguided, and are here for the purest of reasons. While they take their vows of silence, I search for the one of their flock that I have vowed to find. One that I am required to seek. She has become legend in our undercover world. I know not her face. I have no idea of her name. I only know that while I respect her work, I must destroy it. She alone is worthy as my nemesis. And it is she alone that I must kill.

I am not in fear of discovery. The Sisters here are clothed in a veil of another world. I doubt they will see me coming. They do not fear the lioness in nun’s clothing.

The painting featured in this post is Convent Thoughts by Charles Alston Collins (1828-1873), painted 1851

A bold comeback. This is what she has planned. And as she plans it, she remembers a phrase from long ago. The only French phrase she knows, having encountered it in a Daphne Du Maurier book at the age of twelve.  Je Reviens, I return.
Art in this post by Georges Rochegrosse (French, 1859-1938) “La Poursuite de la Maya”

She was engaged once, although she has pushed it out of her mind. He loved her and was endowed with a large enough fortune to satisfy her whims and capricious needs. But she was unable to tear her eyes off of herself long enough to carry on even the simplest conversation with him. When she did not have her mirror in hand, she would seek out her image in windows, vases, or any reflective surface nearby that was suitable and did not distort her features. Being otherwise occupied, she failed to notice when his interest waned and his love faltered. She was blissfully unaware as he slipped quietly away into the arms of another girl. A girl who, although plainer in the face, was sweet and true.

This was to become a common occurrence. People passed through her life as quickly as they came. She had no idea that their initial interest in her beauty faded once they realized a vacant mind and an empty spirit were all that existed beyond her lovely features.

She has fallen prey to her own spell. Unable to part from her own reflection, she gazes at what she thinks is the most compelling image on earth. Others matter not. Except, of course, when they affect her.

Soon, she will pluck the rose out of her hair, for its beauty rivals her own. It may draw an onlookers gaze away from her face and she can not allow that. For she needs them, she feeds upon their flattery and attention. Without it she fears that she will fade away into nothingness. To sustain her empty shell of a life she needs them to agree with her, to approve of her, to discuss her loveliness.

She is alone in the room. Alone with her mirror, yet she does not notice. The mirror deceives.

This post features the painting Vanity by John William Waterhouse.