Sometimes it felt like life was too much to deal with, too much to care about. Sometimes it was like a rock dropping in the ocean, rippling the sheets of water to the edge of the shore. Sometimes it was like a star turning red, then dying, having nothing more to live for.
For Glinda, it was neither. She felt everything and nothing. It was like music, drifting through the air. Music was nothing but sound, sound coming from ones chest or from the steady beating of drums, or the gentle strum of a violin.
It was soundless music. Heard only by her ears, but very faintly.
For her, the music wasn't soft and steady; it was screaming. The endless screaming. Violins at a harsh note, or tortured people? Either was possible.
Sometimes she found herself wondering what had happened.
The answer was always there: Elphaba had happened, Fiyero had happened. Nessarose, Boq, Madame Morrible, The Wizard. . . . They were all apart of what had become her ultimate breaking point.
The day when she realized she had fallen into a void of endless guilt, endless grief, she had broke.
But she still kept on. music never ended. Music was endless.
Glinda was also determined to be endless. She wanted to be remembered for what she'd done, what she'd accomplished, until she reached the equally endless sleep. She wanted to become forever, no matter how much she'd messed up with Elphaba, her best friend, Fiyero, her first love, Boq, the one that could have been, Nessarose, the one she'd tricked. She wanted everyone and everything to look up and say one day, "She made everything worse for herself, but at least she made everything better for us."
Just because she suffered, it didn't mean the people of Oz had to.
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A note from the author: I don't know why I felt like it or what it is, but I did it.