For the first time in her life she felt free. My writing warrior, once brooding and grim, you could tell something changed inside her. She revived herself and came back with the hellfire inside being nothing more than light unlike how it once was. The only warmth she could give herself feeding off of anger and sin. For the first time she could lay back and feel herself come undone. As if every fibre holding her together unwinded until she became a spool of thread. She was bound to nothing and nothing could sink its teeth into her rough, rigid self. She was charcoal in this pastel world. What was the source of this change? It was herself and nothing else. Endless hours spent inside her own head, her attention divided up into millions of different atoms floating amongst each of her thoughts. One thought came and coined itself as the main attraction. It grew and spread like a weed, moving out from her skull until it began to spill over her tongue and with one yank she pulled it all out. The parasite lay limp in her arms, but she never let it go. The single thought had manifested itself into her life and though it was torn from the dirt it continued to grow. What was this thought? It was cancerous, but it was also alien to her. It had become apparent to her that she did not know who she was, or rather who she could love. It was never a situation she put herself in , not even in her head, but she’d seen it happen to others and it took many different forms. The more she tried to piece it together the more she felt herself drift away from her identity. “Maybe,” she said to herself, “it was best to not know, just do whatever feels right in the moment. Would it be so wrong to stay a mystery to myself?” Some would go insane not knowing, but it was enough for my warrior. She was not afraid to be nothing.