Anon is again on the verge of giving up. She can’t seem to find a purpose of her life. She can’t seem to get ahold of her destiny. She’s always roaming between her reality and her dream-world. And she feels lonely. She lies when she claims she doesn’t need people. She does. She needs someone to talk to about her outrageous job. She also needs someone to gossip with. She yearns to wake up to the warm messages of someone. She longs for late-night phone calls. She still dreams of being loved by a man for more than two weeks. She feels a smile crawling up her lips as she remembers she hasn’t gained the interest of a man for more than two weeks for as long as she can remember. Is it a curse? She wonders. As she looks back at her 25 years, she feels she’s lived in vain. Her dreams of becoming a world-renown, happy and rich writer seem void and foggy to her now. Rich and successful? When she can’t manage a teaching job? Rich and successful? When she can’t hold her tears back or keep her depression fits in check? Rich and successful when she cannot go home five minutes late without taking permission from her ”precious” father?! Her professor’s words flow into her ears leaving no impression. He’s talked about the same topic using the same terms and examples at least 10 times. She doesn’t care about Comparative Literature; especially in her ”part of the world”. She doesn’t want to hear that classmate’s voice. It’s started getting on her nerves. She longs to walk out. It’s windy and cold out there but she wants to lose herself into that wind. Maybe the wind can take her away. Maybe it can carry her to different realms. She might find herself in a new place. Dostoevsky? She loves Dostoevsky. He knows how to penetrate the furthest depths of her soul. Ah! The wind! The window is at her right showing thin trees swaying in the wind. He’s just mentioned Sons and Lovers; the novel that thew her into a pit of misery years ago. At her left there’s the door. It’s ajar. No she doesn’t like Gorky. She was bored to death when she read The Mother in grade 11. She feels like walking out. But does she have that courage? Can she really walk out? In any area of her life, is she able to walk away without ever looking back? The tears are welling up in her eyes. But she can’t let them escape. She’s in the middle of an MA class. It’s been a long time since her thoughts flew that fast, she thought. Builungsroman. She’ll end up hating the term and the subgenre. And no she’s not gonna write a dissertation on it. Not anytime soon. Dissertations? She smiles inwardly. Will she even live to write her first? With her severe depression and lack of willpower. Typically male! If she could erase that word from the world dictionary! No body dare blame her is she’s radical. She has every single damn right to be so. Virginia Woolf’s Stream of Consciousness suddenly pops to mind. Why does he pronounce it as soshi-al for god’s sake? Pip’s back! She was wondering why has not he been mentioned yet! Everybody struggles against society, she thought. Oxford University. But she wants Cambridge. How can she think of studying at Cambridge at that moment? Jude dies. She shivers clinching her fist. Without fulfilling his ambitions. She can’t think. Her mind is a blur. Jude dies. Will she die without fulfilling her dreams just like Jude? Abandonment. Frustration. The headache is getting worse. She has work the following day. That recollection makes her heart drop. Disillusionment. She smirks. Great Expectations lead to nothing. Her old professor used to say Great Expectations lead to Hard Times. They perish. The prof kills her more as he talks on. He doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t care. And she’s heard all that before, but her heart is breaking. The pain is unendurable. She has to leave. She has to go out. To where the wind will carry her to other worlds. Know Thy Self. Is the prof sent specifically to her? She’s losing her mind. The few clouds are travelling and she’s immovable. Even the clouds are moving. Why is she stuck in the same spot? Her stomach is churning. Her head is spinning. Her hand is hurting. She’s dying slowly and she knows that. No, she’s not ok. And she doesn’t know what to do. They’re talking. Her classmates are talking. But she’s staring at the professor. How could he survive all those mental conflicts for so long? Or was she the only one going through them? Picaro! Sounds like a cartoon character! Maybe an opera singer!
Anon is exhausted. Life has exhausted her. Anon needs to rest; for real and for long.