She wrote in fragments. Crossed them out. Drew a daisy in the margin, each petal a possibility: leave, stay, speak, wait, burn it all down . Then she excogitated further. What would happen if she chose petal three? What dominoes fell?
By midnight, the page held not chaos but a kind of ugly geometry — truths she had been afraid to touch. Her hand trembled. But that was the price of thinking something into existence.
She closed the notebook. In the dark, she whispered to herself: Excogi, ergo sum — I think it through, therefore I am.
Daisey sat at the window of the small apartment, a notebook open on her knee. Outside, the city had forgotten to be kind. Sirens. Slamming doors. The ghost of someone else’s argument floating up from the street. But she was building something inside: a system, a story, a way out.
She didn’t stumble upon answers. She excogitated them — slow, deliberate, like roots pushing through frost.
And Daisey, for the first time in years, slept like a stone in a still river.
Excogi — from the Latin excogitare , to conceive by thought. To spin straw into plan.
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