Think of the account in which you used to take her & now, amidst new inquiries, you find yourself not needing to break her but to forget everything she once was. A reckoning is what you seem to desire & scream out for but she rejects the ideals in which you find to be presumptuous to the truth. She asks you reasons why but confronted with those questions, you find that you have no reasons why.
"We're all dancing along the edge darling, so come take my hand. Now, tell me how that isn't good enough."
What you don't know, or never knew, or never will be able to realize is that she's conflicted with fear. In the processes of being forced to make a choice she's amounted herself to transform into an inanimate object, losing her realization of existence & loosing her symmetry with the stars. Living is easier when you forget the reality that we're all going to die. I suppose that's what she did & I suppose that's what you're all hung up about. But we're all tormented with the questions concerning life & death & the atmosphere around us. Things that science ignores & most accept mediocre versions of mediocre ideas. Where is the truth to accept?
It's in the cracks of your hands. It's in a stranger's glance. It's beneath the stairs, top shelf, smallest box. It's in an ashtray where cancer coincides. It's in your dreams that you tell her each morning. It's in the books no one bothers to read. It's within you & within me. But there's a catch. You've got to do what they tell you to be considered right; you must accept philosophical meanderings that someone else did for you. "A copy of a copy always turns out grey." Let me find this by myself.