(no subject)
It's frustrating, there's no two ways around it. Moira knows the time she spends in the lab or up to her elbows in books and notes is as much a defense mechanism as it is about finding any real answer to this place; it's about feeling she's doing something, not just sitting around idle and miserable. There are people here she cares about, people who are as much her family as any she was born to, and even if it weren't for them, she wouldn't just let herself fall into that trap. It's easy enough, but Moira isn't really about easy and she certainly isn't the kind to simply give up and sink into her unhappiness.
This, though, isn't accomplishing anything. Oh, it might yet, one day, and she's got no intention of giving up - so many things seem out of reach that just require more work, so many things are found by accident - but it all seems so fruitless. She doesn't have her own space anymore, doesn't have the equipment she knows or needs, and her stores of patience, while vast, are far from infinite.
Even the words she's written herself begin to look like so much gibberish, it's all she can do not to shove them from the table she's been using in the rec room as she stands up, hands firm on its edge, and for a moment, she just stands there, looking down at it all. They seem to mean so little, to accomplish nothing. Gathering them together, she holds the loose bundle to her as she leaves, quick steps taking her out into the sunshine, and there it is again - the bright blue of the sky, the various colors of the jungle, the certainty of seemingly endless stretches of sand at the end of that path just ahead, and every bit of it so unlike Muir Isle. It's not home and it can't be. She'll do her damnedest to keep at it, but right now, how easy it would be, how tempting it is, just to stop for a little while. But even that is no solution. After all, she'd only find herself that much more lost.
As it is, she's standing on the steps, looking out as if something might yet tell her which way to go from here. She doesn't look for signs and portents, but still it feels like something might come to her. Certainly she doesn't know what to do with herself. It's the kind of place she might once have loved for a vacation, but this is a far cry from the days of relaxation she envisioned then. Life's never been this slow, even on her island. It's such a crawl, so unexciting, and though she's the kind who always comes home, not being able to leave still sits poorly with her. She can't just be fine with this, no one could be.
Make up your mind, she tells herself firmly, just move, but it's not until she steps forward and loose papers slip free, followed by more in her attempt to grab at those, that she pulls herself out of that. "Sorry, would ye mind given' me a hand with these?" she asks someone passing by, apologetic, frustrated as much with herself as this place. It's such a useless frame of mind to have got herself in. Thinking like this won't get her anywhere or make this any easier.
This, though, isn't accomplishing anything. Oh, it might yet, one day, and she's got no intention of giving up - so many things seem out of reach that just require more work, so many things are found by accident - but it all seems so fruitless. She doesn't have her own space anymore, doesn't have the equipment she knows or needs, and her stores of patience, while vast, are far from infinite.
Even the words she's written herself begin to look like so much gibberish, it's all she can do not to shove them from the table she's been using in the rec room as she stands up, hands firm on its edge, and for a moment, she just stands there, looking down at it all. They seem to mean so little, to accomplish nothing. Gathering them together, she holds the loose bundle to her as she leaves, quick steps taking her out into the sunshine, and there it is again - the bright blue of the sky, the various colors of the jungle, the certainty of seemingly endless stretches of sand at the end of that path just ahead, and every bit of it so unlike Muir Isle. It's not home and it can't be. She'll do her damnedest to keep at it, but right now, how easy it would be, how tempting it is, just to stop for a little while. But even that is no solution. After all, she'd only find herself that much more lost.
As it is, she's standing on the steps, looking out as if something might yet tell her which way to go from here. She doesn't look for signs and portents, but still it feels like something might come to her. Certainly she doesn't know what to do with herself. It's the kind of place she might once have loved for a vacation, but this is a far cry from the days of relaxation she envisioned then. Life's never been this slow, even on her island. It's such a crawl, so unexciting, and though she's the kind who always comes home, not being able to leave still sits poorly with her. She can't just be fine with this, no one could be.
Make up your mind, she tells herself firmly, just move, but it's not until she steps forward and loose papers slip free, followed by more in her attempt to grab at those, that she pulls herself out of that. "Sorry, would ye mind given' me a hand with these?" she asks someone passing by, apologetic, frustrated as much with herself as this place. It's such a useless frame of mind to have got herself in. Thinking like this won't get her anywhere or make this any easier.