She was impulsive, and impatient, and when something was broken, she wanted to fix it. Immediately. She couldn’t forget, she couldn’t ignore. It sat in the back of her mind, overshadowing every other thought, and weighed on her heart until the anxiety drove her to some kind of action.
Action, she came to find, wasn’t always a good thing. Sometimes patience was the key; sometimes the “wait and see” approach worked best. She really wouldn’t know—she had very little, and she had tried it very seldom. At least action, even when misapplied, offered relief. Because action created momentum, and momentum carried her forward—forward to the end, whatever end that might be. Because really, all she wanted was to know the end. If it wasn’t going to work out, why drag it on?
But the funny thing was, she already knew the end. She had known it from the beginning. Even so, she wasn’t one to give up. Granted, it was probably less a reflection of an undue degree of diligence of character and more the result of an innate and unyielding resistance to any sort of change that kept her from abandoning her course. She was the captain that had to see the ship sink before agreeing to abandon it. And when the sinking was taking too long? Well, she just might punch a few extra holes to speed up the process.
Whatever the action, for the better or the worse, at least it moved her.