Staring daisies beside the stairs

In considering it further, she came to understand that it lacked a voice and therefore should be forever without quotation—an unquotable emotion—a distinction that allowed her to feel its presence as a vaporous circumstance rather than an entity concrete. It became docile and still for a moment, as if made mesmerized, and it allowed her to weave herself into the fabric of its occurrence and assess it as the foul mistiness that it is, the injurious depths of it, the cloak which comes to shroud any attempt at construction with a vicious condemnation complete.

“It is a question of worth,” she said, as she made her way through the alleys of her state. "It descends like a fog over me until it becomes thick, toxic, like a sickly adhesive, trapping me within its fancy as it works its way into me, clouding all, until I am little more than a shivering thing, the deepest of loathing having replaced any semblance of blissful significance or carefree condition worthy of furtherance. And, perhaps, therein resides the heart of it, the matters of fact…

“There seems to be a requirement for an otherly consideration before an internal solidification is possible and, as it goes, having oneself not considered by another—when one wonders if they may be worthy of even the slightest of considerations—causes one to feel as if their own understanding of the self, or a sense of the self’s potential worthiness, is not only inconsiderate but also symptomatic, and one is left feeling not only worthless but insane.

“And from where has this all been born, from what origin has this pathetic perplexity been produced? Oh, goodness, good deary me, we know and we are not telling: for to do so would spoil the fun!”

In considering it further, she came to the conclusion that all was inconclusive, though she had a most itchy suspicion and she spread it evenly into the recesses of the walls which contained her, the blankness offering her the simplest of solaces as it all became smoothly cohesive, a narration worthy of rumination and resignation, a newfound patience with the story as it unwinds however slowly, however tangentially, however frustratingly oblique.

She has been quieted and she is thankful for it, as night descends upon her madness, the hum of sleepless machinery her only friend. Another day steeped in the warmth of productive ponder whilst on a wander, the undulating hills, the place by the lake where a couple of the gentlest comforts are met with and consumed. (And, it must be noted, we may have unexpectedly stumbled upon a wonder of a book this afternoon whilst rummaging through the rows of a librarian’s fair offering…)