She was Goldilocks; possibly, she was Mic Jagger from the Rolling Stones. Her porridge always seemed to be too hot or too cold, and, no matter how hard she tried, satisfaction evaded her.
Oh, I must be Eeyore, she thought.
Only on some days, she realized.
In this particular moment, she must have been Eeyore, or Goldilocks, or even Mic Jagger. She, sad girl, was sitting Indian-style on midwestern grass in the dead of night. The resident geese were tucked away for the evening, and so she was all emptied out by an emptied out pond. Despite having accomplished a hard day’s work, with all her studies and writings, she felt so sad. No, not that painstaking sadness, thank Woolf, but the kind of sadness that leaves a person in a freeze frame while the world buzzes on by. Except, over time, the buzzing becomes this blur, and no single face is really recognizable anymore.
Where did all the people go, she asked the night.
The night said nothing, and so she assumed they were still out there, even though she was not.
It was all just really upsetting to her; toiling away, day-in and day-out, and for what? She couldn’t see the point of it all, and the world would not let her be James Joyce, anyhow.