by Marion Kouzeli
Sometimes I close my eyes and I see a girl writing tirelessly on her notebook. Even though she’s writing nonstop, a stillness is emitting from every fiber of her being. Her energy is pulsating with every touch of the pen on paper, flowing from mind to paper and from paper to heart. The cycle of a healing process. Her world for as long as she is immersed in it, is the wooden chair, the wooden table, the white walls, and an open window to a detached world that is subtly making its presence aware as if not to interrupt her. A wave rippling in the distance, a peach falling from a nearby tree, the essence of dreams that may or may not remain unattainable.
Droplets of salty water are slowly dripping from her short hair, landing on her busy arm – each droplet leaving a tingling trace and vanishing before she lays her eyes on it. From time to time, she rests her writing hand for some moments, fingering a little dent on the far corner of the table, as if she’s digging for a reason to continue writing. Maybe it’s a reminder that even though some parts of her are overflowing with emotions, there are still little openings inside her that the water didn’t embrace with its purity. In those fragments of her consciousness, the water vanished before she finished writing the right words, her hand unable to match its speed. She cannot see it yet, but there is water dripping from her hands, the table and onto the floor, forming small pools around the table, the bedroom, the balcony, and the garden. Yet, this water is not evaporating or expanding, nor in size nor depth. Rather it ripples, barely noticeable to my eyes, in harmony with her pen strokes, as if life were to spurt out of it.
