The heart of a woman is a ghastly, ghastly thing; worse still is her mind. Gone are the days where the two were interchangeable; now they operate on two vastly diametric cognitive modalities. What else can you expect from a fissure if not indecisiveness? To give in or not to give in, that is the question (is it a question still if the answer is deterministic, the damned thing). Both lead to oblivion sooner or later, whether after a handful of bliss devoured or before a shower of misery poured. If the conclusion is the same, then what is the fuss about, you ask? I told you: the heart of a woman is a ghastly thing; worse still is her mind. So her divine intuition is rather pointless, her conclusions amiss, and her shame is anticipatory as well as it is enormous. To take up space in a heart or to make space for a heart are tasks of abject horror; both put her in a position that is most disadvantageous to her disposition, both strip her of her silver gild, her barricade of electric wire. Both must survive beyond her carcass, past its absolution to dust, or she will collapse into the very void she was born of. To keep her space, she will toil into residual aberrations; she will make a myth of herself or a monument, whichever is the one he fancies. Making space, however, exists in complete opposition; it is too easy, too carved in the ligaments of her muscles, too in harmony with her idealistic nature, that it becomes an erasure of self itself, to fill that space once dispossessed of (you see, she can’t keep something that isn’t hers). Do you understand now? The heart of a woman is a ghastly thing, so she must tread lightly; the curve of her feet must never touch the ice she floats on, she must never fully experience the chromatic, resplendent spectrum of her treacherous emotions, lest they apotheosize as they have, as they do. Now you’d be wrong in thinking her entire tragedy lies in fearing vulnerability; it is the very antithesis of her analysis you have happened across, for such is the nature of men. Conversely, her entire tragedy lies in being haunted by vulnerability: yes, she is made in the image of it, she is too much of it, the foolish girl.