It’s a recurring dream, not a nightmare, only its frequency makes me wonder. I look for her, she’s not there, but apparently I have just missed her, or so they say. Yet, she does not answer calls, she’s absent, or somewhere, where I am not.
But who is she? Is she my wife? Is she an old flame? Does she come from a hidden future, from a landscape where I err, lost or condemned soul?
I could do without those searches, before dawn, or so early that I cannot make up my mind: should I get up and make coffee? But then the noise of the grinder would wake up my companion from her sleep. Or should I attempt to find rest, at last, away from her?
But there is the dilemma: she’s not looking for me, it’s me who seems to be pursuing her. But what for? Lost keys? A borrowed book? A forgotten promise?
Next time round, the place will be slightly altered: another room where the search starts, corridors, maybe an underground station? But the feeling would be the same: not that again! I don’t want, I swear, nothing to do with me!
Or is there something I refuse to admit?
Image: Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, 1930, via last-picture-show