There would always be a she. She was irrevocable. It was no more plausible to remove or separate one’s self with all certitude from her than the notion of removing one’s organs was plausible. The possibility in theory, existed, as with the removal of an eye or a kidney. However, it was impossible to sever these aspects from one’s self without crippling self-injury and irreparable damage. No, she existed, or must exist in an auxiliary sense. She must be muted, though not wholly removable.  She would always exist, but most bearably so, on the outside, that hint, that shadow of something that exists at the corner of the eye, one that exists at the periphery, ever present and always fleeting. She was best glimpsed intermittently and with doubt. There in that place between places she could remain an ideal, a fantasy, an illusion rather than a thing ever to be experienced. But as usual, we are such weak creatures, and as irrevocable as she is, so inevitably we languish in her. Too often I have abandoned my autonomy for the illusion of her favor, only to be burned again, and again and again. Too often I have seen her face change in too many eyes. To succumb to her was futile. She had no favor to pander to, however ardent the will. But then…nonetheless.