I have never been so close to fulfilling my dream as I have been during the last six months. In early youth, or rather in late adolescence, I dreamed of writing a book. My dream was supported by my mother, who unconditionally believed in her daughter’s multigenius, and even by several professional writers, who looked down from on high into my large gray eyes, eyes that looked at the world with interest and universal love. I loved everyone: my classmates — well, almost all of them — many teachers, and my numerous friends of different sexes and ages, as well as of various nationalities and faiths. Though I am being sly: at that time we all considered ourselves atheists.
My life was very dynamic, full of friends, all kinds of activities and adventures. I simply never got around to writing the immortal work. True, now and then my rhymed lines appeared in newspapers, filling both me and my mother with pride and hope.
At night ideas would come. They were always very monumental and about love. I had long ago been told that everything written in books and captured in films belonged to two categories: about war and about love.
The theme of war had interested me intensely much earlier. At the age of five, with my beloved two-colored pencil, I drew on both sides of a squared notebook sheet an epic canvas with the grand title “Naval Battle”; my interest in military action was satisfied, and the theme of war was closed forever. Love remained.
There was plenty of love around, but I did not know how to isolate from it what could become the subject of my literary labor. And there was no time left for writing a novel.
Life was boiling away, twisting such pirouettes that one could have taken any fragment of time and simply described what was happening. But I never got around to it.
And then, when it seemed that there was plenty of time and the computer was at hand — write as much as you like — I understood: I did not want to.
Only six months ago did the thought of writing something appear in my head again. It fluttered like a butterfly when I opened my eyelashes in the morning, stretched like a sleepless veil, loomed during reflections and memories. And finally, today’s unexpected business call made me tear myself away from the tablet and switch on the laptop. Overcoming my reluctance to leave the comfortable minimalism of the tablet, I looked into my documents, pranced my fingers across the forgotten little keys, ran through my mail, and, stumbling upon the subject line of one letter, suddenly understood: there it is!
Preventing hostile takeovers. So...
