But for half a minute she wished it was a different sort of day, even though she knew that nothing good could come from wanting at the world.
Losing Foxen was bad. It would leave her blind and lonely in the dark. Being trapped beneath the pipes and choking out her life was awful too. But neither of those things were wrong.
The gesture was so tight with rage she feared she’d snap and crack the world in two.
She stamped her foot. She hoped the greedy thing shit for a week. She hoped it shit its awful self insideout and backward, then fell into a crack and lost it's name and died alone and hollow-empty in the angry dark.
Some days simply lay on you like stones.
Answers were always important, but they were seldom easy.
She was a wicked thing sometimes. All full of want. As if the shape of the world depended on her mood. As if she were important.
They were everything they ought to be and nothing else.
I cannot help but wonder how many of us walk through our lives, day after day, feeling slightly broken and alone, surrounded all the time by others who feel exactly the same way.
Nothing was nothing else. Nothing was anything it shouldn’t be.
Oh yes. It was well worth it, doing things the proper way.
She was not vain enough to work her will against the world. But she could use the things the world had given her.
She shelled the nuts and toasted them, jiggling them about in the pan. She sprinkled them with salt and ate them each by each. Some were bitter. Some were sweet. Some were hardly anything. That was just the way of things.
Patience and propriety. It was the only graceful thing to do.
But for half a minute she wished it was a different sort of day, even though she knew that nothing good could come from wanting at the world. Even though she knew it was a wicked thing to do.
It exhasperated her, but she knew better than to force the world to her desire.
There is a difference between the truth and what we wish were true.
She knew the true shape of the world. All else was shadow and the sound of distant drums.
