The time was about nine thirty in the evening. I was sitting on the tube reading Agaat by Marlene van Niekerk, on my way home from French class. The book is for the book club. French class is because I, for reasons unknown, have decided I must do my master’s thesis with a project stationed in Burkina Faso. At the moment, I might just as well end up not doing any thesis at all. Desertified inspiration, so to say.
I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night during the last three nights. The last month has been ridden by insomnia, this counter-evolutionary condition that I haven’t really suffered from since high school. The day had been a long struggle trying to stay awake, keeping my thoughts on track, accidentally snapping at classmates. Ask me how I am, and I’ll cut you with words. Collateral damage.
I was sitting on the tube, reading this long tale about South African inter-racial relationships, and a girl sat down across from me. I saw her socks first, the high, checkered, blue and red English style kind. Boots and dark blue riding trousers. She had been to the stable, breathing that pungent air, feeling the warmth, the calm, tangible presence of the horses.
I remember sitting on the tube after riding lessons. Years ago, almost all days of the week, Fridays and Thursdays and Tuesdays, Wednesdays. Feeling dirty and kind of awkward about forcing my smells on my fellow passengers – but most of the time also filled with a happy tiredness. Content in my exhaustion.
I was sitting on the tube, on my way home from French class, ready to drop – but oh, how I suddenly wished I was on my way home from a riding lesson instead.
Katja Malmborg 