inaction.

Deep inside there was a feeling of balance.
The immovable object lived inside her gut, her head, and her soul.

In her steadfast reserve, nothing swayed her.
Chocolate or vanilla?  Doesn’t matter.  She could appreciate each equally.

A beautiful sunset was nothing more than the earth’s rotation and weather patterns.

Food, regardless of the kind, was just nourishment.    Taste and texture mattered little in the overall theory of surviving.

Beauty, fun, preferences where all flawed concepts of the mind and society.

She could not be moved by tears, by laughter, or by sorrow.

When the world was happy, she was unmoved and breathed.
Rainbows, sunshine, and songs did not cause her eyes to crinkle.

When the world was unhappy, she breathed, lips locked in a straight line.
Her mother died and brothers cried, but she did not blink back a tear.

And when the world lay dying, she could feel nothing.
The riots.   The rapes.   The destruction.
The deaths of everyone who found her curious or, perhaps, even cared for her, became nothing more than nuclear charred skeletons.

The water boiled.  The sky was red.
A star exploded and the earth was covered in a rain of fire.

She did care.
With each scream, with each death, with each foot of scorched earth, the immobility inside her become stronger and more resolute.

It surrounded.  It protected.  And when it came time for her corpse to feed the wild dogs in New York City, it negated the pain.

All of the people who lived, loved, and laughed, met death.
It didn’t matter if they were sinners or saints.  Gamblers and lovers.  Children or ancient.

Daily dramas all meet with cancellation when the show is over.
Strife, pride, gluttony, rage, mean nothing in Medusa’s garden of ash.

Why bother?