Does it ever stop?
This need to belong inside the realms of a story?
Do we really ever reconcile with the fact that we are alone?
And that, in reality, we are no longer living a story?
Nor did we ever, come to think of it.
Nevertheless, this afternoon, I pretend that I am living a story.
And who could stop me from claiming that I am its heroine?
Bottles of tanning oils and cremes.
A long, dramatic black dress, slit in the middle.
A very fashionable hat.
And I must admit, I do look like a heroine who is living a story.
No one would guess that I am searching for the beginning of a sentence to help me start writing.
A new story.
Any story would do, for you see sir, I have stopped believing in stories quite a while ago.
But the cold water of the vast swimming pool takes my mind off my demons, and I momentarily forget that I am no longer living a story.
Come to think of it, sir, nor did I ever.
EN 
AR