Moored

In the blank of the day, I think about me. When I have nothing else to do, but caress my curls, when I have little to think about.
The dreams I have for myself suddenly seem to have gone bleak. I feel caged.
True were the words of my teacher, the one who taught me how to analyse an individual's handwriting.
She told me about my desires, warned me against them. Every ounce of my body reeks of desire, that I somehow can't give up on. Desire that devours my chance of getting up, fighting for my dream.

I was well advised against going after what my heart inevitably desired. But, like the falcon longing for a taste of flesh, I learnt to dismiss them.
Soon, it was no longer a taste.

I felt empowered, as though I had achieved new heights. Small victories seemed to give me feelings of grandeur, and the achievements of others, just sham.

This make-believe realm was strong and absorbed anything that came to break it down.
Then it hit me.

All my life, I thought I was queen, when I was nothing but a pawn of my mind. A pawn that was used to trick me into believing in my prowess and high stature, when I was sitting on a pile of straw.

And then, I blink, to suddenly realize that it's over.

As over as the spell the noon had cast on me, or was it another one of the tricks that my mind was so good at?