X.Y.ZIP.

gNash and gRit

She clutched the strap of her purple faux-leather handbag, tugged at it as if to unfasten it to the bag. Failing such, she dug her nails on the accessory and formed a line that would have reached eternity-at least to her mind. The line that would stretch from the core of her guts, untrammeled by fear--to the line that once connected her to that which gave her existence. At least up to this point. Existence: Like that of a screeching sound of a fast car stopping just in time that the breaks work in order for the young girl on the street not to succumb to the fat statistic of a lard*-- daily mortality rate splashed on the local government's bulletin board. Yes. Line. As transcendental as it may sound but some Algebra class she once attended, at least based on what she recalls: "a line can be a segment that connects point A to point B; or that it could also be one that starts from point A to infinite space." To forever, she said to then attentive yet hungry self: hungry for validation, not exactly attention, but that what she does may finally "count".

Looking down at her purple pouch, she just realized it now bears the scratch coming from her forefinger nail. It has formed craters: zigzaggy-- ugly yet purposeful. Hmm, finally there is purpose in this kind of pouch, eh? She muttered to herself. But that before she could identify the word, she shouted, at the top of her lungs, that which her doubting self could muster enough voice of: her mouth opened its gaping self, as if from a lion letting off steam in an unkempt zoo. Forming ripples, her tongue let itself out, out into the arid dessert of feeling and that of not letting itself g out and be gazed at: She let out a long moan, unmindful if the next door occupant would think of not thinking and accidentally barge in her room.

But to her surprise.

There was no sound.