Stream Of Consciousness Essay

927 WordsApr 15, 20124 Pages
Stream of consciousness During the early morning of February 25, 2012 I dreamed about Ernest Hemingway. Perhaps it was the blue moon outside my window that brought him to live, but there he was in a room enclosed by yellow walls. He was sitting naked on his father’s old chair with his legs rested against the windowsill. The room was chilly, and the summer wind was playing with the curtains. His desk was in a mess with papers and old cups and ashtray full of cigarette butts. He had lost weight, and he was pale and his cheekbones sharp, when he turned around and looked at me with sleepy eyes. He did not looked surprised not particularly glad either, he just noticed me, and then turned around again and glanced his eyes on the window and the stars outside. And the world was quiet. Intoxicated calm, and it affected my body in a strange way – I felt so light in the night. As a feather. I was four years old again, at the time when I thought I could fly. Perhaps I could. Perhaps the dreams held me up and made me wings of the words. Perhaps I had so much fantasy, at that time, that the fantasy became reality. But the stars are still the same, I said. They will forever be the same. In hundred years, when no one can remember that I once existed and was a resident of this planet. They will remember the dance of stars, and they will call them by the same names, as we do today. But I will be forgotten. My parents and my grandparents will be forgotten. Even you and the other great poets of the time will be forgotten. Because the truth is, at a moment we will all be forgotten. No one’s memory lives forever. There was a quivering silence between us, as though he wanted to say something, but did not know how to express himself. His breathing was deep and heavy. I had never seen him before, not as much as a granulated picture, but at the moment when I stepped into the room and
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