She was a thief. She stole things & she stole heed. Someone could get lost in her void and never come back for he would be stolen of himself, replaced by part of herself. She was called Cyra. A washerwoman once beat her at my face. She stole a cloth. A cloth that was magnificent. Now the same cloth is drowning at the very end of me. They never give, so she steals. And she stole my heart.
This is a personification. But indeed it is true. When the goldsmith came and found her forlorn, she took his beating and let go of the only jewel she ever had.
She lived next to me. The next day she came. The other day she slept by a rock. She found a maze in me, or something so magnificent that she kept her stare.
The other day, she clothed herself and jumped in me. She never once came back to breathe. But then, her unconscious self was brought to life by me. When she woke up. She knew she had a purpose. Then she left me, for, of course, that purpose wasn’t me or my recollections.
After a while, I got used to it. Then again, 6 months after she came back. She held a hand of a beautiful person. A person I know not. But never had I ever seen such a person before. Beautiful, or ugly is something I don’t know. For me, everything is something, not beautiful, nor ugly. It is a definite thing, a shape, unlike me, who is shapeless, out of bounds and even lost.
She accompanied this person in the illicit hours of the night. They talked, but that’s all I know. Their words will be whispers. Their language unbeknownst. I was not to hear the things, for if heard by another, they will be a curse brought down on their love.
Once again, I saw that person. Whatever it was, I did not know. But this person was accompanied by another. She was not here right now. But surely he came.
Then next day. She found him. She left him to be at my bank. He stood there and hurled a stone at me. It never hurts. Not after these hundred years.
Once again, she came. But this time alone. Seven years after. This time, she held a flower. A flower thief, or had she borrowed it? I didn’t know. She offered it to me. A thousand did at the time. This flower was just the same, now it stands somewhere in the forest, or is either crumbled by me.
Then again, she returned after a month. This time, it was evening. She waited not for the right time, she just jumped. I brought her to life again.
And no. She was not pleased. She left looking for places to be.
Maybe she found it. So she came again, but this time her knee ached. She came with one scarlet scarf bound about her neck and a cardigan I have never seen before.
She ran. She ran next to me. I followed her. She stopped. There was a nice little cottage, I had never seen before, built somewhere I never go.
She entered this cottage and there came a person at the door. This person was elderly, a woman, or so it seemed. But Cyra lost her words. She never uttered anything. She left. The woman closed the door. But I think I found her home. A world long lost of her.
Three days later, she carried a crying child to me. This time, she begged me. I saw it. If I didn’t kill the child, it would be killed anyway. Let me take the blame. Let me give her some culprit.
I took the child. I took the child in my lap. And chose its life over hers. So its body returned to her. And she cried anyway. I made her happy. I returned her the flower. I shouldn’t have had.
Someone was hiding in the bushes. And it had seen her.
They took her. They took her t my bank. They were howling things so… unkind. The woman at her lost home was just standing by the window. She drew the blinds.
I felt so… unable.
I felt so lost. I felt like the castaway I was.
I wished for a flood.
Indeed, the flood will come.
