A woman is dreaming and writting the opposite in the mirror universe number 42

 

The sun is warming my skin while I am peacefully lying on the white sand and observing the transparent caribbean aquamarine waters. The palm trees sway in the breeze while scattered seashells decorate the beach, diminute waves die at the shore, enticing, like gigglin mermaids calling to play. I wade into the water until it is up to my waist. I feel weightless and free, I am at peace.

 I close my eyes for a few seconds.

 

Suddenly, I appear on the deck of a 1880s three-mast schooner. Impossible to distinguish if it is night or day; thick, dense grey clouds fill the sky. Tall, angry ripples charge against the figurehead. The colour of the ocean is painted in dark deep blue and grey. The sirens call here too, howling to lure you into the abyss. I can smell the salt, and the dimethyl sulfide fills my lungs. A kraken awaits in the depths, lurking beneath the surface of violent cold waters, ready to engulf the schooner.

Effortlessly, it can be understood what C.D. Friedrich was experiencing when he created Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, probably a sense of awe and wonder as the powerful storm developed. When I re-open my eyes, only the feeling is lingering; a deep internal urge for adventure in the unknown. A question about the capacity to sail the North sea. Maybe in our next life. 

The sun sets in paradise, warm reds and oranges call all the beings inside their caves, shells, houses. Calm and peaceful outside, while the North sea strikes storms in my stomach and rises foamy winds in my brain. Better, braver, captains will be the ones to sail their ships and live their own adventures in the wild, dark north.

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Overcontemplating the counterfactual is a recursive meme in my life. From the headphones, adequate lyrics penetrate my ears direct into my limbic system, perfecly curating the only possible outcome:

...We were always a losing game...