But What Was The Point Of Living

No, I Call. Come Back. I'm Here, He Says. But I Can't See. It's Too Bright. You Can't Hold Back The Light, Gemma. I'm Here. Trust Me.

The Glow Dies Down, And She's Standing At The End Of My Bed--the One Who's Been Following Me Around Leaving Feather Messages. I Take In The Torn Fishnets, Plaid Mini-kilt, Shiny, Riveted Breastplate With Leather Straps At The Sides And A Worn Great Temolo Decal Near The Left Shoulder. Her Wings Are A Crazy Black-and-white-checkered Pattern, Like They've Been Spray-painted At A Body Shop To Look Like Hipster Sneakers.

No One Asks How Or What I Am Doing. They Could Not Care Less. We’re All Looking Glasses, We Girls, Existing Only To Reflect Their Images Back To Them As They’d Like To Be Seen. Hollow Vessels Of Girls To Be Rinsed Of Our Own Ambitions, Wants, And Opinions, Just Waiting To Be Filled With The Cool, Tepid Water Of Gracious Compliance. A Fissure Forms In The Vessel. I’m Cracking Open.

I Had Thought Felicity Dangerous A Moment Ago, When She Felt Powerful. I Was Wrong. Wounded And Powerless, She Is More Dangerous Than I Could Imagine.

There In The City's Steam-and-smoke-smudged Harbor Is The Most Extraordinary Sight Of All: A Great Copper-clad Lady With A Torch In One Hand And A Book In The Other. It Is Not A Statesman Or A God Or A War Hero Who Welcomes Us To This New World. It Is But An Ordinary Woman Lighting The Way- A Lady Offering Us The Liberty To Pursue Our Dreams If We've The Courage To Begin.