She wanted to believe. But she also knew better.

She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! Alas! She must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.

do whatever it was they expected her to do because they were always expecting her to do something more or be something more until it didn’t feel like there was enough of her left to go around.

Oh it seemed sensible. Oh yes. Certainly. But she knew what seeming was worth in the end, didn’t she?

She was bored. She loved, had capacity to love, for love, to give and accept love. Only she tried twice and failed twice to find somebody not just strong enough to deserve it, earn it, match it, but even brave enough to accept it.

She needed more sleep and less aggravation.

She was too tired to feel anything more, she wanted a book to do to her what books did: take away the world, slide it aside for a little bit, and let her please, please just be somewhere and somebody else.

She’d stopped looking tired a while ago and had moved on to whatever tired turns into when it became a lifestyle.

She understood at once, and with the courageous goodwill that sustained her, resigned herself to the fact: there was always a drawback. There had to be. Sometimes it was the lack of light, or a factory nearby, or not enough rooms. Here, it was a railroad.

If she wanted to think that apathy and independence were the same thing, good for her. Maybe she was right.

It exasperated her, but she knew better than to force the world to bend to her desire.

Too old to dream of perfection, perhaps, she had instead discovered a certain delicious appeal in flaws.

Contented with little yet wishing for more

Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else.