The Grey Country ((work in progress, for slow reading)
…… There is no total quietness here and thus one never feels entirely alone. That’s what I thought, while I was moving into the lighthouse, as if I were in the middle of a sentence or a thought. Usually when I give up an apartment for another, I’m paralyzed by piles of unanswered mundane questions concerning the new home, while being invaded by a strange sense of defeat. So totally dejected, I try to fix in my memory the place impregnated with my life that I will soon return to anonymity. I am momentarily immersed in a diffuse anxiety, persistent until I can reinvent my life in the new city, the new campus, where I will have found the ideal café, or the park with a water feature reminding me of the sea. But only when I can get up at night without turning on the light or skinning my knees will I know that I am truly at home. Up to this moment of grace where I start to become one with the new place, I tend to be tormented with persistent and useless doubts: the apartment is too small, too noisy, too dark, or I was wrong to accept a position in another city, or this promotion was not worth changing my habits.
I wallow in uncertainty and this is all the more unsettling that I can no longer take refuge in the automation which usually lightens the weight of my daily life. Breakfast time, for example : I can proceed without being quite awake, or going to work : a task my body can perform obediently following the route learned by heart, even when it is numb. In other words, everything I have learned to do without really thinking in order to manage my everyday, somewhat boring, life, which finds its true meaning when a new routine corsette my days tightly to prevent me from skidding. This is how things usually are when I move into a new apartment.
© 2015 Sylvie G