the light girl

she blows in through your window bearing gifts of angel cake and sparkling wine.  she says she has a gypsy caravan waiting if you want to come - you can only take one suitcase the weight of reverie, three poodles, or a vision of a lithuanian hot air balloon.  then she laughs like it's summer and you're having popsicles, and tells you not to take her seriously.  but it's too late.  you have your suitcase in one hand carrying nothing but love, the kind that melts fast, and you're hopeful.

cover girl

she is tired of excuses. correction: she is tired of being an excuse. anyway, it's not like her life is a breeze. she can never claim a bad hair day or the time of the month or the side-effects of left-over nightmares. she has to show up. she has to grin and bear it: the smile spilled all over her face, the appearance of always being mid-dance, or beaming with gladness, awash in sunlight and colour and all that is wholesome, as if anyone would just love living a never-ending detergent commercial. and everyone simply glosses over her – for once, she wishes they would stop and consider what it's really like to be her. to be so exposed, to have a surface for a face and to know that whatever you try to hide behind is but paper thin.

chocolate girl

of course i'm messy. but you still love me, don't you? maybe it's my own insecurities - i mean, sometimes i get this feeling that i'm too much, but at the same time, that i can never be enough... it's just that i feel like you're pushing me away, like there's this obligatory distance you seem compelled to impose between us. i know, i know, boundaries and all that. i don't want to be clingy - i'm stuck on you, that's all. come on, i'm trying to be sweet here! don't you want me? yes, i have my dark side and yes, there are moments when i'm a bit intense. but am i really so bad? don't i make you happy?

the one who thinks herself a bird

fell in love with the sky.

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lives for the inbetween seasons.

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majored in metaphysics.

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will not (ever) use Twitter.

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only pecks at her food.

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is all for liberation movements and ardently supports V-day

(though she skirts around certain issues).

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is often admired for her sense of perspective and unique points of view.

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never has storage problems.

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has yet to experience that sensation of falling in her sleep.

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sings herself awake.

the new girl

she's back. no-one knows where she's been. just that she is back. and somehow new. no-one remembers her from before. that's what makes her new, somehow. she simply appeared. you notice her in the hallway, you find her on your doorstep; she hangs around the moon, sits under trees. she pops up everywhere, but without yelling 'surprise'. more like inside laughter. you wonder why you're not afraid of her, and if you should be. then again, no-one fears what is fresh. and she is that. and so new, she is untouchable.

The freedom fighter

it started with small freedoms:

the freedom of pressing the snooze button

the freedom of letting your hair down and letting it be

the freedom of stretching and unbuttoning

the freedom of the last little bite and the first sip

the freedom of humming to yourself.

but soon she set her sights on greater targets:

the freedom of going unwashed for a day or two

the freedom of tearing up traffic fines

the freedom of unconventional punctuation (...!)

the freedom of spontaneous dancing, lucid dreaming and random acting.

stealthily and with impressive prowess, the freedom fighter got to all of them.

she managed to rob you of ("liberate you from") every smile, song,

glance and idea that you'd freely express.

and you realized that she would not stop

you saw "Operation CATS" printed in bold in her mission statement:

Choice, Access, Thought and Speech - she would fight them until the very end.

she knew what's best for you, after all.

the audience member

her face is obscured, a halo of sepia.  but you can see her, she knows.  there is a connection between you, of course.  you've touched her, and you can feel the blush in her hands left by the applause.  the audience member never leaves (you) - she is still there, in the third row, on the left, long after the room has grown dim and awkward with its emptiness.  she protects you from its blank stare, her gaze a puppyish spotlight following you wherever you may go.  she is there in the shadows, keeping you a-lit, and she knows you can see her too.