the bees. THE BEES.

Bees

Delihla Tipp gazed aimlessly out of her window, her dark eyes steady but perplexed. She seemed to do this often, staring at scenes no one else could perceive—a direct result of the fact that such scenes, in reality, did not exist. There was nothing outside of her window, nothing at all.

To anyone but Delihla Tipp, of course.

The shouts and colors running through Delihla Tipp's mind were as obvious to her as the chair she sat on and the window out of which she gazed into the nothingness. See, Delihla Tipp was blessed with a vivid imagination, but cursed with the inability to gauge the adequate time to fall into its tempting arms. She never quite seemed to pay mind to the people around her, uninterested whether they comprehended her fantasies (so they were deemed by everyone else) or not. She had no need for friends, for family, for... reality, in truth.

Because, to Delihla Tipp, fantasy was perhaps more real than the so-called "real world" she was excepted to live in.

Expected to live in by whom, you might ask? Well, Delihla Tipp certainly didn't know. And she didn't care much for anyone, "real" or not, who attempted to convince her otherwise. She had no time or interest for silly, fleeting concepts like reasons or comforts or logic, since none of that mattered in the world of her own. Or, perhaps existence would be a more fitting term for what Delihla Tipp resided in.

What was the difference between "fantasy" and "reality" anyway? Both were perceived through your mind, she reasoned, so who's to call one more true than the other? A mind can trick itself into believing anything, she reasoned, so who's to say all the bigshot hedonists of the day aren't simply dreaming their deepest wishes? Who's to say that Delihla Tipp herself isn't the figment of an infant's imagination? Delihla Tipp certainly didn't shy away from that possibility. It simply didn't matter to her either way.

Delihla Tipp's lack of regard towards others was mirrored her physical appearance. In a single word, she looked pinched... or perhaps poised? pretentious? Enough of that, for it seems one cannot describe Delihla Tipp in a single word.

A slight tangent...

Perhaps one cannot describe anything, anyone in a single word. Whenever one triumphantly professes success in doing so, one is immediately called to dispute a different aspect of the subject's manner that does not satisfy one's perfect all-encompassing word. A single, bland, linear word simply does not exist without exceptions, and if one spends the time taking into account all of these said exceptions as one should, the single, bland, linear word has grown into a paragraph or two. At the least, a complex sentence. Excuse the clumsy attempt at doing so.

But back to Delihla Tipp.

Her face was pinched and hollow, her voice the same, with closely-knit brows and a thin nose which protruded out of her face slightly more than one would consider average. Her hair was straight as needles and dragged back into a poised bun with a clasp slightly too small to hold it securely, allowing several locks to eclipse her face. Every now and then she would remove her spindly fingers from resting on her slightly-too-tight dress and pretentiously flick back the offending shadows that blocked the view of her precious window.

Delihla Tipp was pinched, poised, and pretentious... yet still the grand exception of even these words were her eyes.