She sat down on the beach, a secluded spot. The books and water she brought with her, neatly placed on the beach mat she brought along. She was already buzzing with coffee she drank earlier, trying to wean herself off of the drink. The memories of her sister still burning like a fresh wound, but she needed to get away from it all for a while. Even if only for a day which she spends on the beach reading the obscure Camus figure. She will confront K when she sees him again with her newfound philosophical truths, the questions that plague her at night; she will work these questions into her artworks.

The crashing waves pulled her in. She read the novels; page after page, yet the questions in her mind did not dissipate. She imagined Meursault walking along the beach before the murder. She saw the waves crashing down on him. Maybe this could save him? She wondered what would have happened if he did not kill the man.

He would still have not cried at his mother's funeral.

Why should the poor Meursault cry at his mother's funeral? Maybe she abused him, maybe she left him to fend for himself? The absence of tears would then make sense, why would you cry for your mother if she was the devil herself?

Another wave crashed and someone walked by. She immediately thought it might be K, but why and how would he know about this place? She looked up and saw the old man's face. Meursault in another lifetime, in another world. Meursault in a different form. The old man walked past her almost as if he did not see her. She did not see him. Neither of them existed.

She tried to read again, but the old man's features remained in her mind, the sullen look on his face. Why did it capture her mind like that? What significance did this old man play in her private moment?

He disappeared on the horizon, and she tried to spot him. A layer of mist lay heavy on the horizon making it impossible to spot the Meursault figure.

The pages again turned as she found herself fixated in the story, as if she lived herself into the words and created world. The absurd situations in the story troubled her, she could not make sense of it. Meaning deluded her touch, the moment turned heavy.

The sun was setting and she needed to head home. She stood up and folded everything, and placed the books in her beach basket. The weight of the books held her back for a moment. She again yearned to talk to K, she wanted to ask him so many questions. She will find the time in the coming week. The next art class will be in two days. Until then, she will try to figure out what philosophical questions she could cram into her mind.

Postscriptum, or Time is Running Away with Itself

Time is running away. I have so many deadlines that are now far away but which are slowly coming closer. Rather than try and focus on them, I wrote more of the story! This week is the tenth chapter! I cannot even believe I am at the tenth modulation. I hope that you are also enjoying the slow building of the story.

In any case, please do share your thoughts about the story so far. Maybe you can help me create the next scenario as well!

For now, please enjoy! Stay well, and happy reading.

The writing and story in this post are my own creations, albeit inspired by the photographs I took of Hive account@urban.scout and the wine I am drinking. The photographs are also my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Nikkor 50mm lens. I did share some of these photographs in an earlier post you can find here.