Zaire

She walks around with burgundy velvet curtains for sleeves. Cape-like, they emphasise her presence, drowning her small frame. But bold eyes, dark brows and sharp cheekbones, she is not one to be reckoned with. Indeed the velvet suits her, as if fitting her personality instead of her frame. Once day she will grow into deep red. She walks with her velvet curtains sleeves, drowning other situations in majesty, drama and copious amounts of care. Her hand gestures are open and vibrant.  She is celebratory and tragic, extravagant but not hedonistic. She is outwardly emotive, but it suits her.

She tried silence for a while. She tried timid and aquamarine. She ate her breaths and walked slower, in hesitation. She tried to refrain from debate. She held back her heart. She respected other’s opinions and remembered to remain quiet. She thought before she spoke, and spoke before she thought hard enough to remember how to politely enter a conversation. She let them look at her, instead of intensely staring them off. She let them guide the conversation and the path on which she walked. She was soft and pretty and sweet.

The silence grew, it grew so great it almost consumed her. The silence dragged her backward like heavy cloth, dragged her downward like weighty material or sleeves, like a muslin cape but made of water.

and so she poured out the water and filled it with fire and let the fumes fill her curtain cape and sleeves so that like a hot-air balloon, it would rise and she could walk in it in as much authority as she had before.

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