Who is she? An oxymoron. A juxtaposition of truths and lies built on parallel lines she desperately tries to cross; of wondrous tales that she lives in each day by night, dreaming of worlds with strange words and strange peoples. She is everything she doesn’t believe in and yet nothing the world believes. She is herself, yet not; her mask does not last, it slips and is replaced by another and then slips yet again. She does not know herself, and yet manages to hold true to her own. Her words are jumbled and recognizable to none; they are heard, dismissed, and remembered only when it is too late. Her eyes watch and observe and she waits anxiously, even as her mouth opens to speak words from her heart.