I suppose my steely wit is often lost on my blind optimism.

She laughs like she understands the subtle irony of the situation, but she really has no clue. She dances like she has enough rhythm to be considered Ginger Rogers, but she owns two left feet. She sings like she is the star of a Broadway production, but she can't carry a note. Despite her short-comings, she has an unstoppable faith in herself. She isn't afraid to be the one who makes the mistake, but she always tries to make things work. She is enigmatic, yet somehow the most accessible person in the world. She is slow to talk, yet always has the best things to say. She looks a person straight in the eyes, yet is demure enough to blush when she does it. Perhaps it is in her nature to be blatantly indescribable; she aims to be the word that it always on the tip of your tongue. She is the daughter of Mona Lisa and Walt Whitman. She is sister to Mother Earth and the Muses. She is the girl that is wonderfully naive and woefully wise. She is all of us, yet still her own person. She is we; she is free; she is you; she is me.