Her look was intense, even tormented. But deep.
She suffered long chronic exhaustion, a years-long lasting chronic weariness was her problem, at least since she was aware of having trespassed the threshold of being of age.
She remembered well when she was young and was just a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. And moods of her childhood lurked in her aspect still.
It was as an overlapping of states, an intertwining of spirits that kept her in a seamless tension of mind.
But youth was over. Thank Heaven—over.
And now? Where am I off to, now?
That question prompted a feeling of an unconsummated life: that there had always been something better which she might have done, if she had only been better and known better her own mind.
Mind. That was her damnation.
But that incapacity to come to terms with her mind urged a tension that had kept her in a vigilant state of being constantly awakened by life. A place, a face, a book, a song, some memories of past lives never let her say "Here I am!".
She never was where she seemed to be.
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