.april thirtieth. She is there before me, that frail shell of a girl whose eyes quiver gently with tears at each attempt to grow gone wrong. Slowly, she is learning that the entire world is not against her, that maybe she is simply alone in her ideals. Or maybe she is not. Or maybe she weeps because others cannot see the faith she puts in this, in her second chance. Blaming everything external for for her misgivings, everyone from her father to adolescent boys to her first best friend, maybe she wanted to prove after all this time that the problem lies within herself. But the problem now has shifted, serpentine. No longer that of fear and frailness and lack of comfort or trust, the problem now lies in the ideal, the emotions attached to the primitive act. This girl in the mirror makes me want to weep. My sadness washes over her hopelessness, over her clutching for unavailable dreams, over her disconnectedness from all that she's become.