She imagined herself as Catherine, wandering the Yorkshire Moors, crying for terrible love. She wanted violent love; all-enthralling, all-encompassing, trembling and nervous. She rejected obvious fantasy. She rejected magical stories of wizards and cupids and vampires.
Yet she dwelled in another fantasy. Her fantasy was one of soul strings and loops, that tied her in and swept her up charmingly as Spider’s pray, crying into the foliage between the twine, for the rocks beneath. She knew her company was present; she knew she was not alone. It was quiet, and spiders and subtle forest sounds, exactly how she liked it. It was natural, not contrived. The insects that scattered the terrain in front of her were not charactatures but small emblems of trembling and hunting and love.
She was half-awake at that forest floor. She had a sense of it, but was not quite there yet. Still, she would be, all in time. When the dust on the floor and the thoughts in her mind would collide and know their inextricable tie, and she would know violent love.
She would know it not as positively haunting but hauntingly positive. This understanding would be as the very music beneath the rocks that softly sing and stand the test of time. She would understand the impenetrability of this love; as thick as an Ocean, as dense as this forest floor and hardly comparable to a Sweet porcelain tea cup, of whose delicate structure she would scoff at.
She would know of her own unconfined existence, a notion beyond expression, that had been set from the beginning, and now only laid in front of her as she watched the spiders crawl on the earthen floor.