Today, Auriol has a worry. What is this worry, she wonders? What is its significance in the great chronicle of the world? None - she is merely a tiny human being immersed in cold unremarkable self-absorbtion. But in her own personal narrative - is this worry a point of significance? Does it tell of insecurity and fear? Or does it tell of the incompetence of unnecessary anxieties? She knows she is incompetent - a fool, no less. So what is this worry of which we speak?
How can we judge while we are left in blissful ignorance of the context - for the context is the most important factor. What foolishness - Auriol does not want us to judge. She is the judge of herself and what we say of her can have no influence over the supremity of human selfishness embedded in her heart. Yet she knows, with that depth of disappointed vanity common in few, that more often than not, her selfishness can not, and will not, be satisfied. She doesn't want us judging her - but she doesn't expect to be granted her wish. So what? She is indifferent. She couldn't care less whether we judged or we didn't, approved or didn't, disapproved or didn't. She is Auriol, impassive with feeling.
To return to this worry. Auriol is terrified - yes, terrified. She is poisoning herself, she thinks, with eloquence. Her own eloquence? Well, no. She is not eloquent. Of course she is. She is brilliant at English, all her teachers claim. And trust them, with as much modesty as a cat? It would be a disloyalty to morals, if a common product of humanity is entitled to the ability to contain moral convictions in the meagre quantities of their puny craniums - let alone to put these morals into practice.
So she is not eloquent. Poisoning herself, then. How dare she even think such a thing? Surely, it is impossible. Inconceiveable. It is utterly unthinkable that eloquence could be a form of poison. It couldn't kill her if it tried. So why does it make her hot and breathless and mind-bendingly energetic?
It is all folly and madness. It is her own eloquence and love for drama - that same hot breathless energy - which claims the poison. It is not real or true. So why does it haunt her? She is over-worked, exhausted, starved. She kn0ws she is not being kind to herself. But how else is she to obtain those words which she craves. She cannot afford these precious minutes pondering on the veneficus abilities - or not - of passionate words. Eloquence is cold - she knows that. The true words are eloquent for their feeling, and not for their perfection. It is cold - and poisonous.
What a stupid musing this is, she thinks. Why, she hasn't actually had tea yet, for anxiety about poisoning herself with eloquence. Hell, what person wouldn't laugh at her for this monstrosity. What a complete waste of time. And Auriol abhors wasting time. She cannot bear to walk slowly down a corridor for the lazy sake of a few relaxed or short-legged snails.
She does not waste time. So then why is she wasting time with this burning worry? She doesn't know. Perhaps she really is poisoning herself. Perhaps she will faint sometime, and be taken to hospital, and be diagnosed with eloquentitis, or some like disease.
Oh, when will this idiotic fancy go away, leave her forever, to be cast into the depths of Hell, where all the evils of eloquence burn and rot sometime or other, once they have run their course of infiltration, and safely infected every silly-minded being in range?
Today, Auriol has a worry.