Nothing quite excites the public mind like the death of young woman. Drugs and misadventure. The excitement masks itself as collective regret or remorse, inability. It's always just such a shame...
Some people, it is true, can not be helped. Self-willed yet in hurried distress, in control and at all times in need. The standard is set young that they will be a woman who must be saved to be loved; but they will always be just beyond that saving. No love can safely grasp or hold the thing they desperately clutch and keep apart, they make sure of it. No love ever able to assuage, to quiet, or to calm.
Defined not by their triumphs but eventually only by their troubles.
To concede the wild imaginary self would be to lose that endangered fragility, the last stronghold of spirit, the center of what brings them attention, surrounded by their addictions, seemingly protected there.
The siren both calls and announces, then mourns.
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