insufficient

She thumbs through Picture of Dorian Gray and the Illuminatus! trilogy. These books relay a special message as far as she can tell-- one about paranoia, and the trinity of mind and body and soul, and powers we all secretly wield. This is not new. These are archaic themes that run so deep they suggest an answer to the most staggering question of "what is a person". These books are about historic notions (anywhere between 50 and 100 years old) of common sense and their impact on the self and the outside world.

And when she reads these words, makes herself cozy in the heads of these old authors, she knows that in their world, she would have been a tool to the real powers that be (or powers that were,  but most likely still are). This legacy of mental occupation was spearheaded by gentlemen. Even worse, gentlemen she would certainly have fallen for, in all their powerful glory. The men in these stories reach Point B from Point A by riding in a car made of the silly notions she ruminates on now. This is all it takes to obliterate all the strong, glorious, female authors she knows still exist in their parallel worlds.

"But not this one," she thinks. "Not this world, riding the edge of sanity and insanity merely for the sake of the ride. Women don't dip their toes in the fountain of crazy delusions and then write about it. I don't know why. Maybe they do but I can't think of them now." And she knows this is disrespectful. She hopes that maybe, she is even wrong. But if she's right, she could be that author. She could construct a world. She could hack off pieces of herself to become free-roaming players, she could be the set and setting. If she could make it past short, ambiguous trains of thought that lead nowhere.