What is it? The mind is attempting to distinguish the noise. The sound of rain hitting the window in a consistent rhythm, it is pouring out there. A few drops falling on my cheeks, I turn away and refuse to close the window properly. I must catch up before the dream turning into fragments.
Who is she, who is he? That fountain. Those old houses from eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, all in black.
I am in a flower print dress facing the huge blue skies. The candy-floss clouds moving gently forward, they are giggling at the never-ending rush on the earth. Someone has glanced at me for the twentieth time, I know that without turning my head. Not once.
I wear a pair of winter boots making an effort to keep my balance so that I would not tumble over on the deep soft snow. Someone is observing my clumsy movement with a barely noticeable smile on his face. With my heavy handbag dangling from side to side, I bend slightly forward and take small steps towards him. “Take time. No worries”, a voice breaks in gently. I can sense his widened smile without lifting my face. Not once.
Let me piece them together, these disordered images. Stand still. Now.
The sun is shining brightly through the window. A brilliant start of the day. How could a morning filled with traces of sweetness lead to something else?
I am approaching the end of the journey, the Abstract is done, so is the Table of contents. The literature list requires revision certainly, but I should be able to submit it by the weekend. Ninety-seven pages, an one-year journey packed with excitement and frustration, achievement and disappointment. All over now, soon. How many brain cells died during this process? Thousands? The presentation of the thesis is set in October, then my degree of Master of English Language is done. It is worth it, you must confess you are more fascinated by Virginia Woolf’s mastery of stream of consciousness than business models, Isabelle. You adore her visionary thinking, lyrical and mysterious language, do you not? You adore Alice Munro, Patti Smith, and Haruki Murakami. The list is long. You recognise the patterns? You are too dreamy to battle in the business world. It is the language and literary sphere your spirit belongs to. You are on the right path now. Soon.
Sitting before my fellow computer in the pc-room, the fingers are moving smoothly from one character to another. The birds, making some sweet noise while playing hide and seek among the pear trees. And the heart, singing a soft melody, as if it is celebrating the new prospect of life. The tree tunnel, the light shining through the heavy bushes. At this moment, life is surprisingly flawless.
An email has made its way to the inbox, “due to differences in the way the data are searched in the system, some of the data in the thesis are imprecise. It’s really not your fault.” Those words, as heavy as stones, for a moment, dragging the heart down to the waves. The mind is struggling to figure out something, the consequences. Invalid arguments and erroneous conclusion? Wasted research? No submission by the weekend?
Where are the birds? Are they tired of playing hide and seek? And the melody, all of a sudden, becomes senseless.
I hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Those waves, are they the same as the ones Virginia Woolf observes while drafting The Waves?
The story has a good ending which I think is unnecessary to include in the post. The intention was to record the moments and address the wave-like nature of life in the sense that it shifts constantly, from the most harmonious to the most dramatic, and perhaps less frequently, the other way around.