She sits at her computer unsure of whether or not she really has enough time to do this experiment. In fact, she is unsure of whether or not she has enough time to do most things she wants to do. There never seems to be enough hours in the day or days in the week or weeks in the month or months in the year to do everything she wants so she stopped keeping schedules. They just detailed her disappointments and missed opportunities.
The ring on her finger is not a wedding ring. It is silver with a white flower as the eye-catching feature. The pedals are made white by slivers of stone which could be white quartz. It caught her eye in Japan in a shop who's memory she wanted to preserve for as long as possible. It was a short walk from Shinanjo station, in the opposite direction of her apartment where she lived in Japan. She often took the long way home to shop for socially conscious products, to rekindle her mind with questions and to delight her nose with natural scents. Just a few weeks ago, she happened to reconnect with those people and those times through the magic of technology to find out the shop too was becoming a memory of the past. Like the scratches on the silver band of the ring and the chip from the white stone flower, everything fades.
Her fingers have always been long. Piano fingers. Her pinky fingers always stick out. High class pinkies. Her nails have always been enviously strong. But not unbreakable.
Her legs are not long and not short. They are full of muscles and journeys and stories and pedal strokes. They know the earth in its many forms and the agony of pushing a bicycle with 25kg panniers up a mountain. They have raced up mount Fuji. They have washed themselves clean in 3 oceans. They have stood in 5 continents. They have kicked and ran and walked and cycled and skiied and danced and squatted and stood in many places. They have loved them all. They are looking forward to the long rest, but not anytime soon.
Her eyes are green and sometimes blue, depending on where they are. Ocean eyes. Many people have drown in them, many people have only gazed at the surface, afraid of their depths. One smart man brought a submarine and he's been exploring since.
Her words and thoughts are connected to things that are not always easy for people to understand. Her speech comes slowly but her pen writes fire. Her patience is commendable but imperfect. She is annoyed by anything that is not of the utmost truth, like this sentence.
She is not really boring, far from it, to be honest. But she often doubts herself and finds herself taking notes on which stories people listen to without interrupting half way through or changing the subject or leaving the room. She wonders how she could tell her stories better and is constantly working towards it. She also battles with the existential dilemma of emptiness and the lack of an essence and wonders if perhaps it would be better if she left nothing to grasp.