Her weak attempts at happiness were paltry and unconvincing. She tried to program herself for happiness; failed. Her Cartesian economics of soul were programmed daily by dire warnings from the newspapers of the world, and all the dark imaginings of her own mind, and the minds of all her doctors and therapists.
How could she ever be free? She'd have to give up her entire teetering fortress with all of its rickety scaffolding, and set out for the countryside. She'd have to completely re-invent herself. Let go of all her old modes of thinking and concentrate on being nothing. Let the universe go to hell and gone.
She'd have to give up. She'd have to give up to find that all the fighting she'd been doing was fighting against teams of angels struggling mightily to excise her fractured & cancerous old ideas -- all her fighting for her paltry sense of self, her shrunken, deformed identity was the fighting of a butterfly to stay in its wrinkled and gamy cocoon.
Lost in the forest, Jenny
one day met an insane butterfly who would not
come out of her cocoon. Painfully hunched inside, terror-stricken and
starving, the butterfly screamed at anyone who dared molest or even
approach the cocoon. It was the safest and most comfortable home the
butterfly'd ever known, and most familiar, being the thing she made
herself when she was just a worm. She felt very attached to it.
She refused to leave.
Jenny knew there was only one thing you could do with such a
ridiculous person -- knock them out, take them out of their cocoon
by force, and destroy the cocoon so they couldn't climb back in.
But this kind of thing was never done. The one thing required
was never done. They would never love you for that. They would hate
you to the end of their days. They would blame all their subsequent
difficulties on you. Never mind you tried your best, and you made it
a desperate botch -- this isn't a job for men after all, only angels,
only cranes from deep inside, operated by the user herself.
So, regretfully, Jenny walked on, casting a glance back periodically,
and seeing absolutely nothing had changed, except the pool of tears beneath
the cocoon had expanded slightly. Jenny continued to glance back at the
poor wrinkled, hunched butterfly until a bend in the path removed the
scene from her view.