She was one lady to reckon with. But who in the room would ever dare approach her. She was but a dream.

As is life.

Zorra wanted to know her every intricacy and vulnerability. She wanted to inhabit her own skin, but alas, she could never quite peer into her soul. Her entire existence had been a composite of all the myriads of thoughts and worries and frustrations and joys that surged through everyone else’s minds. Who was she to take control over her own mind?

But what had happened to start with? Why couldn’t she relate to the very being that she had been born into? Why was the identity plastered over her soul a concoction of humanity and madness.

I loved Zorra more than my own life. And I could never dare approach her. She was but a dream.

If she were a composite of all I ever knew, all I had ever seen, then what could I possibly learn from her? What could she give me? I admired her from a distance, but simply because she was like no other. No one else embodied all people. But the minute I began a conversation, I would immediately recognize the repetition of details already known to me. I didn’t want the details of Zorra. The only thing that captivated me was her attachment to detail. But the attachment was enough to keep in awe.

For years, Zorra remained a dream, and I wanted her to remain so. Her mystery was all that kept me looking in her direction. Then why did I come to burn in fury? Why did I want to break the spell?

But of course, even mystery will come to drain a man. Zorra’s surface couldn’t satisfy me for long—I grew weary of looking. I but had to dig in.