Of Being and Essence

 The sun streamed, as sun has a tendency to do, through the cottage window. The witch sat down in one of the rays and watched it. She stared at the sunbeam until her eyes hurt. Then, naturally, she blinked.

    At this very moment, she had a choice.

    The potions were made, the stock completely full to bursting, the bandages wrapped and clean, the herbs harvested, the cottage freshly cleaned. Even her darning basket was empty, all threads having been deposited through all holes last evening.

    The whole of everything was set to move seamlessly—a perfectly conducted pattern that could repeat itself mostly without thought.

    Mostly.

    The people, though. The people who came for her help could not be set in a seamless pattern. They were all kinds, with all kinds of messes, sorrows, joys, trials. They made life interesting—and kept her from thoughts of life's futility. People, she knew, were futile in being, never in essence.

    She stared at the sunbeam, and made her choice.

    No, she wasn't bored. She was merely resting. 

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