Legend told of a beautiful woman whose beauty shattered the very definition. She had hair of black silk and eyes so blue it made you feel dangerously close to plummeting through the sky. She bore no scars, no hour wrinkled her smooth skin and she was blessed with that rare balance of being voluptuously enticing yet skinny at the same time. I could go on for pages about what an exotic specimen she was, but this beauty never extended any deeper than her skin. So quite naturally, I feel I would be doing the world a grave injustice to sing her praises when in reality she was as vacuous and bland as a celebrity whose fame comes from selfies and home made erotic videos. It is admirable to find a woman who can possess beauty and the finer qualities of life, but Esmeralda was not this remarkable feat. It was no fault of hers, and she tried and tried to be something more…all to no avail. She would pick up a book and read till her eyes bled but the pages offered her nothing, for she had no imagination. The words dribbled off her brain like fat, useless raindrops. They did not move her. They did not make her sad or euphoric. They were empty. They were dead. Dead things strung together to make more dead things. She tried to write once, but the quill pen in her hand did not make her feel infinitely powerful in front of the blank parchment. That quill ended up in her hair as a decorative piece which men fussed over as she glided past them. She fed off those praises and the many ways in which dashing gentlemen (whose brains were quite possibly the size of very tiny peas) would coo over her like ridiculous, mentally challenged pigeons. Her life was dull and she had no clue. It’s easy to accept an unfortunate state if you bask in the comfort of ignorance. Her fortune however, was about to change…the words that told the story of her fate were dwindling on a magical breeze that gasped and sighed from the East. Her words were being rewritten.