After her period of doom-gloom & existential meaninglessness, there is the inevitable backlash of optimism and release of seratonin withheld.
Body coiled full of unconcealed excitement for the future. Restless like the creak, creak of a rocking chair, wondrous visions of love & enlightment splashing her brain like frenzied paint flung from the brush of a mad artist.
This is when she dreams of being an accoladed novelist, joining the covenant of the American intellects, brillant, inspired, crading port on thin glass stalks whilst they seduced in clandestine corners of New York, just outside the yellow-lit realms of public knowledge.
Her passions all boil to the surface simultaneously. Her head darts about like a wind-worried orange peel, as she attempts to partake in all that is suddenly glittering under her personal phosphorescence. She contemplates changing majors again - this time to gender studies. Sex, afterall, has been a subject that has sinisterly intrigued since pre-pubescence. She can be a sex researcher/journalist by profession. Erotica writer by by hobby. She will awaken a new generation of girls and boys with jolting insights about their very own genitals & ignorance, by day, and leave their muscles taut and hands glistening with their very own white translucence, by night.
Oh holy sweetness. Perhaps she's finally divined her true calling, a seed long-ago planted which has lain dormant until now, when the sunshine of epiphany bears down.
So whisked away from her frustrations and daily responsibilities that she is unable to sleep or awaken for her early morning class. Perhaps a grave mistake as a result of carelessness and infantile fancies, or perhaps the hangover from the royal nectar imbibed by the larvae of a to-be queen bee.
She doesn't care right now. She just composed something true. She is flying, but she doesn't give a flying fuck.
When she dreams, she is self-sufficient.
When she dreams, she's everything she's ever dreamed of.
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