Like fingerprints, encased in each of our frames are shreds of who we were.
The child that had cried over the death of her pet cat,
could no longer cry.
Or to say the least, cry over the trivialities in life.
"The pressure envelopes the mind..."
she did not continue, for her hands were far from the keyboard, and immediately brought to her face.
In an attempt to retain whatever composure that was left of her ruins, she hides her tears.
Her hands, they reeked of defeat.
Unconsciously, she huddles into a tight ball, a stance that reiterated failure in its rawest forms.
Failure is neither chanced upon, nor is it sought. It is planned.
The perpetrators are, curiously, often ourselves.