What I unconsciously _prefer_ is the long negative Wavering space-of-day between the two.
I might say I prefer heaven to hell or hell to heaven.
My garbled gyral nature, partaking uneasily of both, prefers to wander and hang and float about between the two.
I might say I prefer strength to weakness or weakness to strength.
What I prefer is a hellish hovering, an endless torturing Tenterhook between the two.
And that Wavering preference is against my will, against my reason, against my judgment, against my taste and liking--against my life, my welfare, my salvation: against the clear lights of my spirit.
I know I work intently and industriously at the articles of my damnation in the Wavering--Wavering--
I know it would be better to die at once: failing that, to live but to live positively as a beggar, a whore, a thief or a milliner. Knowing that, I know also I Waver: I know I shall prefer to Waver: I know I shall constantly Waver.
I am constant--I am remarkably profoundly constant--in my Wavering.
In the morning as I dress I draw on a stocking--a long black or white glistening stocking. I know I do it only because the mixed big world, which refuses to Waver, is pushing--pushing me. I would choose if I could--though loathing my choice--to stay with my bare foot and my stocking in my hand, Wavering. Between drawing it on and pausing barefoot, Wavering. I prefer not to draw on the stocking: I prefer not to be barefoot: I prefer Wavering--Wavering--
When I’m hungry I choose: not to let food alone: not to eat it: to have it by me and Waver, Waver emptily. Not to enjoy its anticipation: not to contemplate it. No--_no_! To _Waver_! I reach and take the food because the world in its pushing pushes me.
One reason it will be pleasant to be dead: I can then no longer Waver.
Worms will eat me unwaveringly. Or they may then do the Wavering. But _I_ shall no more pause with a bare foot and an empty stocking, a dish of food and a gnawing midriff.
The Wavering is not the pale cast of thought: it is not my way of analysis: it is only Wavering--Wavering--
Wavering is not among the blue-green Stones in my antique necklace: not by that name--not as one Stone.
It is a marked and hateful and hellish gift of this present Me who house my Soul.