Hanne Ørstavik

I have layer upon layer of thoughts in my head and the bottom one has nothing to grip on to.

I look out of the window again. The rain is trickling down silently, evenly, like the tears that cover my face. Perhaps God is in the water, in the raindrops. I put my hand against the cold pane to be close to Him. To be as close as I can without imposing.

I wondered who in this room I would go to if I had problems. Anyone my own age looked silly, immature, unfocused. The older ones seemed too perfect and uptight. I couldn't find anyone I'd confide in. The only person I trusted here in this group, apart from God, was myself.

What they display, these students who don't arrive in the reading room until nine, or even later, is a kind of daring. They play with life, with possibilities. For me my studies are like a tightrope I'm balancing on, life will begin only when I've reached the other side. Only when I'm standing there triumphantly, with a glowing testimonial and glittering results, only then, I think to myself, will I be free.

I lay on my side with my head on the pillows and looked out of the window; the blue of the sky was so clear it almost hurt. I felt it come again. I didn't cry much, just a few tears rolling down, wetting my eyes. I wondered about the cause. My thoughts lay embedded in sinews and skin, beyond my reach. Those of you who believe yourselves to be clean, without sin, without guilt, may cast the first stone. I saw myself under a heap of stones.