cascading monsoon like onto her bedroom rug.
She asks the dressing table mirror:
What does it really mean, this sudden abandonment of angst?
This innocence of the first time.
Where nothing makes sense. Words no longer rhyme.
And that pointlessness of purity?
That deprivation of joy?
The furniture of fear never seemed so uninviting.
In the elegance of opera gloves she had opened up her mind, awakened her awareness.
Walked unaccompanied through the door marked: Childhood's End.
The door slammed behind her.
Paradoxically she had opened Pandora's Box, and now:
She realised, it could never be closed.
Capability Red August 2014
