Blue’s not so bad. A touch of white for the Divine, at least there is some clarity there. She sits remorseful back against her chair and yet still she stares outward in hope. Demons and freedom dance about her head, or are they the demons of her own freedom? She rises up and still she sits. The paradox.
But bread crumbs have been left here and there, and she wonders if he’s found them. She wonders if any morsel of such from the past are still in his pocket buried deep down with the lint. She questions if it will be enough to sustain him and will he survive. She asks what is it, what drives him in such a manner? The answer is in the fire, that fresh spark, erratic, with an all too consuming flame. What does he seek? Simply freedom himself, desperately, but somehow still after all this time the fear of the very thing he so desires remains, so he sits within the swirling flames. What does he need to do? Discipline the mind. It’s only in that mastery can he truly be independent. Freedom and disciple, liberation but structure, yet another paradox. Many wise ones have come before yet he has chosen not to listen. What can she do, how can she help, the answer is simply to die. There is nothing more to be done here.