Last night, I could not sleep. This is not too rare an occurrence. Often, my brain seems to be thinking at a pace that I find very tiring. The result is a sort of battle between my brain and myself. I know that scientifically, this is quite impossible but if you go by what things seem like, what I've just stated will not sound implausible to you. So, there I was, lying wide awake on my bed, trying to steer my thoughts away from the usual worries and cares that my brain repeatedly thinks about at night. Suddenly, I decided to go with it--to lull my bran into thinking that I was happy to think what it was asking me to think. Slowly, an envelope formed in the dark--not the kind that is made of paper. Think the hazy, translucent, fluid cover of a jelly-fish and you're closer to what I'm talking about. I tugged at it till it tore open at the sides and saw an old woman lying on her death-bed. She was all alone--as is usually the case, you might say but what struck me as odd was that she was doing exactly the same thing that I was: thinking about an old woman lying on her death-bed. We started writing our stories--in our heads, of course. I wrote about her and she wrote about the other.
There was an old woman who was about to die. She knew it, her children knew it, her long-dead lovers knew it too. They were all waiting for her to die. Including, the old woman herself. It was an awfully long wait. If you were ever waiting to die, you'd know but I suppose you weren't and so it's hard to explain. In fact, I'm not sure I understand it too well either. The old woman, on the other hand, does. In the mornings, she would stare at the ceiling, wondering why it looked like it was so high when she knew that it actually wasn't. The curtains were all white and the sky outside was whiter still. Everything was drained of colour. The night-gown she wore was slightly blue but she could hardly make that out. One day, on her customary ritual of staring at the ceiling, she noticed a wisp of a cobweb at one end of the room. Suddenly, that patch seemed not so ethereal or clean or white. She looked at it till tiny spots of grey popped up in front of her eyes when she looked away. She was thinking. She was thinking about an old woman lying on her death-bed, waiting to die. The old woman in her head lay in a white room with a cobweb at one end of the ceiling. She was staring at the cobweb and thinking about an old woman on her death-bed, waiting to die in a white room with a slowly growing cobweb. Suddenly, a little breeze made the cobweb shiver. The old woman shivered too, as did the one thinking about her, as did the one thinking about her. The cold breeze hit me and I shivered at its touch. All at once, we were all aware of the others. The old woman smiled, thought the old woman, smiling, thought the old woman, smiling, I thought and smiled to myself. The old woman thought of a story she had always wanted to write. She was a writer at heart. The world had changed her into many different things. She hadn't written since she was eighteen. Now, she was about to die and the world had left her in a little white room with a cobweb at one end and what she wanted most was to write, wrote the old woman, wrote the old woman, I wrote.
The old woman extracted a black book from the lowermost drawer by her bed and wrote about a young woman about to set out on a journey to an island which was engulfed by the sea every night and spewed out in the morning, wrote the old woman in her black book, wrote the old woman in her black book, I wrote, stroking the black leather of my diary. The island was beautiful, with its sploshes of brown, splashes of blue, stripes of green, blotches of purple and spots of red. The young woman, black and brown and pink, diffused into the island--she was the island. The sunlight went through her and left her burning, wrote the old woman in her white room, cold in the white, damp light streaming through the window, wrote the old woman, wrote the old woman, I wrote, my skin growing prickles because of the cold.
The young woman was free and alive--and she had but a day to live. She was warm and volcanic, spurting and gushing and spewing her life into the island, soon to be swallowed by the sea. As the sun shone into her eyes, the sea roared into life, advancing to her bare feet. For a moment, she stood there, feeling the heat above and the cold below, and looked the old woman in the eye, wrote the old woman looking her creator in the eye, wrote the old woman looking me in the eye. The island collapsed and we looked at each other. The old woman closed her eyes contentedly, thought the old woman closing her eyes contentedly, thought the old woman closing her eyes, content at last.
I closed my eyes, satisfied.
There was an old woman who was about to die. She knew it, her children knew it, her long-dead lovers knew it too. They were all waiting for her to die. Including, the old woman herself. It was an awfully long wait. If you were ever waiting to die, you'd know but I suppose you weren't and so it's hard to explain. In fact, I'm not sure I understand it too well either. The old woman, on the other hand, does. In the mornings, she would stare at the ceiling, wondering why it looked like it was so high when she knew that it actually wasn't. The curtains were all white and the sky outside was whiter still. Everything was drained of colour. The night-gown she wore was slightly blue but she could hardly make that out. One day, on her customary ritual of staring at the ceiling, she noticed a wisp of a cobweb at one end of the room. Suddenly, that patch seemed not so ethereal or clean or white. She looked at it till tiny spots of grey popped up in front of her eyes when she looked away. She was thinking. She was thinking about an old woman lying on her death-bed, waiting to die. The old woman in her head lay in a white room with a cobweb at one end of the ceiling. She was staring at the cobweb and thinking about an old woman on her death-bed, waiting to die in a white room with a slowly growing cobweb. Suddenly, a little breeze made the cobweb shiver. The old woman shivered too, as did the one thinking about her, as did the one thinking about her. The cold breeze hit me and I shivered at its touch. All at once, we were all aware of the others. The old woman smiled, thought the old woman, smiling, thought the old woman, smiling, I thought and smiled to myself. The old woman thought of a story she had always wanted to write. She was a writer at heart. The world had changed her into many different things. She hadn't written since she was eighteen. Now, she was about to die and the world had left her in a little white room with a cobweb at one end and what she wanted most was to write, wrote the old woman, wrote the old woman, I wrote.
The old woman extracted a black book from the lowermost drawer by her bed and wrote about a young woman about to set out on a journey to an island which was engulfed by the sea every night and spewed out in the morning, wrote the old woman in her black book, wrote the old woman in her black book, I wrote, stroking the black leather of my diary. The island was beautiful, with its sploshes of brown, splashes of blue, stripes of green, blotches of purple and spots of red. The young woman, black and brown and pink, diffused into the island--she was the island. The sunlight went through her and left her burning, wrote the old woman in her white room, cold in the white, damp light streaming through the window, wrote the old woman, wrote the old woman, I wrote, my skin growing prickles because of the cold.
The young woman was free and alive--and she had but a day to live. She was warm and volcanic, spurting and gushing and spewing her life into the island, soon to be swallowed by the sea. As the sun shone into her eyes, the sea roared into life, advancing to her bare feet. For a moment, she stood there, feeling the heat above and the cold below, and looked the old woman in the eye, wrote the old woman looking her creator in the eye, wrote the old woman looking me in the eye. The island collapsed and we looked at each other. The old woman closed her eyes contentedly, thought the old woman closing her eyes contentedly, thought the old woman closing her eyes, content at last.
I closed my eyes, satisfied.
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