Disclaimer: References to plot belongs to the most beloved J.K. Rowling.
"I'm only protecting myself," she would say. Everyday following the same routine – awakening to another morning, proceeding to work, interacted with evasive joyous expressions, coming back home to uptight tensions and no cooperation. Many alike, duties and responsibilities, presides around her, haunting her. As if holding up the world upon her sole shoulders. She continues to run like this, like a zombie roaming, pleasing for escape. She's cracking, but still standing strong. Everything so violently turning inside her, they need not to be constricted, each on hitting her porcelain body, adding more and more cracks. She doesn't know what else to do because this is all she knows and remains hoping a miracle arises for her to be rid of commitment debts. All she desires is to be happy, not having to worry about the future, and be able to decipher her course of living on her own, not by lineage or society. Without any control, everything she held dear to heart is silently slipping away like sand falling between your fingers as you with great effort keep it in hand. She conceals herself t public, except to a select few.
"Why bother," she thinks. True to her beliefs, she refuses to accept herself worthy of attraction. She only hears and sees what she wants to. Her doubtfulness to herself puts her down, leaves her hopeless for affection. Not ever knowing others' thoughts, the doors are shut, locked, and key thrown away forever. The thought of perfection delights her, but she isn't at all the flawless perfection she is praised to be. Her intellect and intelligence has brought her great fame and pride. Her attitude and interests reigns her most sincere. Her purity and knowledge is found most intriguing. Yet she is living a half life. Nothing really to enthrall her, nothing to sweep her off her feet, nothing to put her at ease and bring a smile upon her face. Only seeing black and white, her thoughts can only be dark and gloomy. No one she can turn to, no fully understanding her. She doesn't even know her own self anymore. Having bottled up her emotions for so long, letting them be heard is so tedious, so pain-staking; feeling as though no one would fancy to be burdened with her nonsense.
"What have I to gain,' she fusses. Becoming soft-hearted, vulnerable, empty, and alone is the gain. Keeping a secret – a mystery – makes her feel full and content. Only displaying what is acceptable to her. Hoping for something or someone to help her through the maze and find the light at the end of the tunnel. She stands idle, hopelessly waiting. As great as she becomes, she continues to feed others' hunger for happiness, like feeding the monkeys at the zoo while the sign reads not to do so, still not caring for her own harmony and happiness. Hopefully one day will come, when time will come to a halt just for her, so she can escape into the oblivion.