She's a girl growing up too fast. There's a peculiar uncertainty about her. One not focused on the approaching horizon, but instead on the endless sky above. An artist admiring the canvas that is her life, she lives with full strokes, never covering over and always masking something between paint and paper, under charcoal smudge. Stepping back, the piece looks simply stunning, without blemish or misstep, beautiful to an envious fault. It is a certain kind of beauty, not over-shadowed or glamorized by the mise of materialistic sensuality, left unadulterated from thought to fingertip; an idea in it's purest form.
But even beauty so fair is not satisfied. And if one were to take the time to admire the details, the intricacies of her work, you find what is supposed to be hidden, between this stroke and that, part of that close secret is left unmasked, and almost surmisable by those few who cared to look.
She's restless, and I know why.
