All Clara wanted was clarity.
She wanted to be lifted from
this oppressive closedness of
all of those around her. She
felt free but only to herself
because she shoveled the joy
and passion and life that grew
inside her vigorously out into
the world. But with no one to
pick it up, to reciprocate her
joy and openness, she withered.
She never stopped until she
had shoveled it all from inside
her, and was left with an empty
vessel, no one to refill it with
their own. No mountains to
grow inside her, no rushing
river to fill her to the brim with
vitality, no seedling aspens to
sprout along her inner banks.
She felt utterly barren inside.
She felt weak from empty, faint.
Everything in her world seemed
fuzzy.