Euphemia

A touch of fall was dormant in her eyes and it was doubtlessly mystifying for the common man who would dare an encounter. Euphemia feared the underlying misunderstanding within communication, which she met more often than she could remember. It was, at least, a little comfort to know that her life had been no different since her first breath. A genetically forced nature was more acceptable than a product of tragedy. She was Euphemia as a whole and human through and through.

Discussions on many levels have revealed many views and many theories on what qualifies as living. All that considering, it is an ironic notion when one considers how much Man still wanders and wonders about life, never quite comprehending the fact that existence continues to occur, still digging deep towards the cause. We know nothing of the 'After' and nothing of the 'Before', but we dare judge about the 'In between'. We have appointed ourselves the gods of 'Now'. But in secret a room had been found that had no known substance and floats between void and substance, everywhere and nowhere on earth. Scientists could not describe and therefore never revealed it to the world. But we have all been there. All of us have seen and all of us have forgotten. Euphemia, however, has never even left.

She twisted music through he fingers and painted words on the walls with it's essence. Euphemia's daily life consisted of nothing, but she had done everything that could have ever been done. It was never enough for her, the girl of no age, who could not be physically located. Unsatisfied, she threw the hymn of colors through a nonexistent window, not aware of the fact that it could invoke Inspiration in a random woman from eastern Europe who would then create a song that would not be forgotten for decades.

From across the room she could feel the gaze of the Mirror, who judged her every move. Euphemia turned abruptly. He hair flew gently over her left shoulder and rested there. It gave off an odour of never ending growth, yet it never reached beyond her elbows. She confronted herself with her own eyes, staring back at her through the Mirror. Age was absent, but it was clearly trying to grab hold of her through the holes in the universe. Her existence within the room of improbability blew a subtle wind of discomfort through reality.

Her eyes were brown and dark as chocolate. It matched her hair almost perfectly. Her skin, the color of almonds, was covered in permanent goosebumps. Euphemia had figured, long ago in her timeless universe, that it was her heritage calling her back to the world in which she once lived. Sometimes the world had ended, but most of the time no time had passed. She longed to age and walk the path of the dead, but the room had not given her the door to escape. There was no happiness, but neither was there loneliness. It was only nothing and nothing was described.

Once at no defined point in time she flew past the sun of our future solar system and witnessed the hand of time knitting this piece of art in a heartbeat. It exploded into life and then vanished. Euphemia observed life and death as opposed to the continuity of all that has to be. She then crawled into the whitest corner of the room and told herself not to breath until she had processed all. It didn't happen and so her heart never beat again. But she couldn't die in a room that had no substance and she continued to observe.

So Euphemia always turns back to the Mirror on the wall, the only object ever present, never receding. Her soul would be reminded, again, that it had gotten lost in a second. Lost in a memory that everyone forgot, but would be the source of their lives until death.

Souls had passed and seen the one who could not follow them into creation. They would remember her, in life, as a face recurring in every night's dream, accompanied by heavy snow. Euphemia has seen us and we will never stop seeing her, unless the door comes to be and returns her to what she was.

But she will not be given her life. Euphemia lives in the room of eternity and she is the one who upholds its restrictions. The room cannot be without the fact of reality, for where there is one, there is none.