She was searching for the essence of her self. In the books she read. In the people she met. The men she loved. The work she created. She wanted the stories to be real. Each mind to be interesting. The effort to be worthwhile. The trust to be reciprocal. Yet she revealed herself too soon. Exposing her world for the masses to touch. Blind devotion leading them down her pages. Braille-moving fingers fondling her body of work. Devouring her like a delicious novel. The romances sweet but tawdry. The people becoming fictional. The dialogue sounding false. An over-used line, again. The climaxes anticipated. An unsavory end. But a desire for more. Someone better. It was her essence. This search to live.