The Devil and God || BSD

IV - An Oyster's Suffering

A greeting is worse than a parting, but the parting parts in two. Goodbye, goodbye!

At some unknown moment in the evening, the young woman distinctly observed her fading anxiety, reappearing in waves where she would unconsciously repress their insolent strikes against each part of her brain. However, as they revisited, they lost force with each strike; something would discard of them the moment she no longer found an oddity within their components. In those intervals, a blankness of mind hazed her judgement, and she would think of nothing.

She was thoroughly sickened, but not so sickened as to cause an irrevocable fever or imperishable taunts to her own person which, many times, did she wish for them and for their impertinence. Her sickness only came when she remembered this, and when it was gone, she would not think nor concern herself for its mundane return. She did not concern herself, because it was, altogether, unvaried, and she too had become one with the tiresome cycle of vicious inertia that had been produced from that same disinterest. In its dark moments, however, she was delivered into a state of furious melancholy that did not find a single outlet from its vessel as she would not allow it; she remained unperturbed and inactive by these oppressions of her own concoction – and how she wanted to be perturbed! She wished to destroy, to bellow, to weep, to kill! She wanted to do it all, but there was an acute understanding of their radical stupidity; her imagination was the only victim of her deadly vitality, and the power she held there! A power she would have exploited when available, but a power that had too become concealed and, consequently, sealed. As such, her search became inward, careless and unafraid of finding atrocities along the path of discovery, soon to become her only project.

The preparations were few. Of course, they were only so because she would array them before her in one capricious sweep, and with a shudder and shaking resolve, she would eliminate and combine her options in such a way that left a direct arrow to her destination. She revised the line over and over, from every angle the straightness could possibly withhold; her forehead creased, and she sank down into her chair once more, burying her face in her hands, silence following the loud trumpets of the finale.

Silence, indeed, because inside the vacant house, she was all that remained. If she had ever been immersed in herself, then, as of the current moment, she began to drown in quicksand and there was nothing more in the entire globe. Indeed, the same globe that she no longer desired to take part in, was just the same one she wanted to find a single outlet in. But how could she? Cockloft Hall had become her experimental ground and home, in where any sort of idea that she'd conceive would be exercised with refining care with the anticipation that one day life may provide her with the opportunity she would not, and could not of own volition, go and seize.

Books replaced the castle once she grew bored of its source: spurts of blankness of ideas that required to be fed with novelties and themes in order to teach, not only herself, but her imagination as an addition. It was no act of interest nor magnanimity. Not an act of interest because the methods in which she would search for and memorize information was languid and slow, as though her insatiable curiosity had never been; also, not an act of magnanimity because the drive to help those around her was not so easily started as the one to help herself. She unconsciously sought a mean to feed her absent ego, if it could be called so, that sat so much more stagnant than she did in her little corner.

Art had been a sporadic avocation, in whereas she'd begin their creation, they were abandoned halfway through their realization. There were more often times, where she would begin nothing nor finish anything. It angered her and unnerved her - her lack of action. It was as she had suspected a few years ago: she found no pleasure in those very things that were positively picked out, none other than by her own whim and discovery, to bring her any sense of happiness to her monotony. Consequently, observing her incompetence, she grew ashamed and bitter toward herself – she did not trust her act of will, as it were.