I found her sitting in the porch. The afternoon light pouring gently over her messy hair. Pale, with almost no clothes on, I saw her with a book in her hands, her knees raised, her two feet on the chair. She was paying no attention to me. I had come silently, and I stood by watching. Her breathing was regular, soft, contained at times. She wasn’t just reading, she was thinking. And she started murmuring.
“What if I told you… you could change something from your life? A piece, something. Whatever. Do you know what you would change?
I know. I’ve come to realise there is one little thing that bothers me nonstop, and I really wish I could forget about it forever.
It’s time. The notion of time. Passing by. Coming towards you as a train that might leave before you catch it and then be gone forever. A train you wait for, a train you imagine, you think of, you never really get to know. A train that could sweep you along if you were to be mindless.
I want to forget that time is limited, that the clock is ticking. When I do, I achieve focus. But usually, I can’t stop feeling like it is controlling me… and I’m late, and I’m never going to be able to catch up.
I would like you to teach me to do that.
But I don’t want to be your teacher. There are things that it is best if we learn them on our own. I don’t want to teach you. I don’t want to fulfil that role. I want us to be equals.
And I wouldn’t worry, you are going to learn, and you are going to learn it fast.
Let us be free from that silly expectation once. We can learn from each other without teaching us anything.”
Strange how she talks to herself. There are always two in one, and the other in the two.
Like the spots on my fur.