And there at her work she sits.
Engulfed by the dim aura of a candle she has forgotten she set spark to all those hours ago.
Gaze on her brow and you'll see lines there, bourne of passion.
The kind that only the truly devoted can know.
The kind that comes of love for a thing understood by few, cared for by even less.
She'll not sleep tonight, this she accepts.
When she does there will be dreams of the work she may not finish in this her life.
How much of a woman goes into her creations, how little of her she keeps for herself, so minute the bit of her heart she may not see broken as she trades loves for answers.
A crapshoot, this thing some call work.
No such sure thing, this thing a blessed few know with devotion.
And there the woman continues to sit.
There are pains in her legs, aches in her arms, yet her mind oblivous to all outside of the precision in her movements.
Never her table knows of sit-down dinners.
Not once has the den been ensconced by lite conversations and lighter laughter.
Whispers abound - as they will when a person is not to be understood. When others replace misunderstanding with an easier-to-stomach pity.
She'll not hear them, as she sits.
She'll not heed them, as she lives.
What is this woman who knows no man.
Who knows no children.
Whose home knows no use outside of a practicality named survival.
Fewer than a hundred comprehend her conversation.
Lower than a dozen would care for comprehension.
All of the aches, the silence, and the dim candles will not keep her from a lonely death.
And yet the world shall rejoice at her project-not-yet-finished if she succeeds.
But if she does it...
When she reaches the right fit that keeps her toiling all these sleepless nights...
At the brief interlude of space and time and knowledge...
You will all know her name then.
But never many will know her heart.
She will cure your cancers and not accept your pity.
I am a scientist.
And this is existence, chosen.
Engulfed by the dim aura of a candle she has forgotten she set spark to all those hours ago.
Gaze on her brow and you'll see lines there, bourne of passion.
The kind that only the truly devoted can know.
The kind that comes of love for a thing understood by few, cared for by even less.
She'll not sleep tonight, this she accepts.
When she does there will be dreams of the work she may not finish in this her life.
How much of a woman goes into her creations, how little of her she keeps for herself, so minute the bit of her heart she may not see broken as she trades loves for answers.
A crapshoot, this thing some call work.
No such sure thing, this thing a blessed few know with devotion.
And there the woman continues to sit.
There are pains in her legs, aches in her arms, yet her mind oblivous to all outside of the precision in her movements.
Never her table knows of sit-down dinners.
Not once has the den been ensconced by lite conversations and lighter laughter.
Whispers abound - as they will when a person is not to be understood. When others replace misunderstanding with an easier-to-stomach pity.
She'll not hear them, as she sits.
She'll not heed them, as she lives.
What is this woman who knows no man.
Who knows no children.
Whose home knows no use outside of a practicality named survival.
Fewer than a hundred comprehend her conversation.
Lower than a dozen would care for comprehension.
All of the aches, the silence, and the dim candles will not keep her from a lonely death.
And yet the world shall rejoice at her project-not-yet-finished if she succeeds.
But if she does it...
When she reaches the right fit that keeps her toiling all these sleepless nights...
At the brief interlude of space and time and knowledge...
You will all know her name then.
But never many will know her heart.
She will cure your cancers and not accept your pity.
I am a scientist.
And this is existence, chosen.
