Journey of a lifetime
Skimming the waves, gliding effortlessly through the sea, faster and faster, perhaps we're flying now. The day is stormy, the clouds crashing into the rain, fighting the through wind which turns them an ugly shade of purple and it is a jealous shade. But that's the adventure of it, that's the ride. Every minute has the thrill, this doesn't come out of a textbook, and this is real adventure.
I am on top of the world. I am better than everything else. I am the sea and the sea is me.
But suddenly, a wave comes up that is bigger than the rest, the one that haunts our whole family. I am reminded of last summer, the white wave whilst travelling to England with Sophie, and I am reminded of Sophie's story as a child, the story of disaster. I remember every moment of this journey, I hold these memories close. I do all this whilst the wave creeps up and up, impossibly slow, pausing just a minute to mock me, tantalisingly close and all far too real, before crashing down on me with such a force I am engulfed. And then? …nothing. Yet at the same time, the blackness sucks at me, pushing me down and squeezing me through into an impossibly small space which pulses and vibes, twisting and curling until I am in a little ball, back to the fetal position, about to be reborn.
*
When I wake up, not much is clear to me, but I know one thing. I have a splitting head ache. In front of me a little scene is unfolding like a pocket. In it, there is a glass of water righteously towering over the mouse of a stool on which it stands. I reach out to it, but as my hand dips the picture it wavers and swirls about, breaking up the whole image and threatening to disappear. I freeze; terrified because I don't want this little window to close because it is the only thing I have anymore. In the same moment, I realize two things. One is that the picture has changed, and the other is that this time, I am not alone.
A man is wondering around, quite young, perhaps a man was not the best way to describe him yet. He reaches for a comb and frantically tries to give his hair a parting. Give up mate, I find myself thinking, nothing's really worth that kind of torture to your hair. He pulls at his T shirt, pausing a moment before the mirror before dragging it off. He reaches for a navy shirt, but his hand hovers also over a creamy one. After several minutes, he finally decides on the navy one, and sets off. Where? I scan his room, looking for any kind of an indicator, but don't find one. As I peep closer at this mysterious little book under a pillow that I have a little feeling may answer my puzzling, I experience a curious sucking sensation. Everything swirls and mists around the room, until only the door is left, glowing unnaturally bright. He's leaving the room, and it looks like I'm going too.