the trees in Tatra

The feeling had been [nearly] successfully avoided all day. While on the train she payed close attention to the conversation between two high schoolers and their drama with people who had silly nicknames and kissed and silly interesting stuff like that: then Catherine had listened to the news on her way to the building where she worked and arriving there she met her cubicle’s neighbour and they talked about the day’s important meeting while the lift travelled ten floors up: all the while Catherine was able to entirely avoid the mirror on the lift — and reflective surfaces such as glasses on her way to the building, and the screen of her mobile phone, and any place and surface and object and material in which she could find the eyes on her face staring right back at the eyes on her face, giving her the sense of sheer discomfort she had fleetingly felt as she was brushing her teeth whilst looking at the face in the bathroom mirror — luckily a very dirty one and the reflection furthermore affected by her sleepy state so early in the morning. But she was sure: she was sure, there was nowhere to hide [and yet somehow she hid]: she was someone else. Whoever Catherine had been, that was who she was no more. Whoever body that was, that body was not hers: whoever “she” was as well. For she was not Catherine, nor was that body hers [maybe it belonged to Catherine but she was not sure] and her mind and that thing that was producing thoughts [be it a mind or something else] were another thing entirely, another thing separated from matter, another thing that came from who knows where at who knows when, allocated inside an alien thing: the graft rejecting the host, the host rejecting the graft. There was no way to return to that place in time and existence in which she had known who she was.

(Crln S.)

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