A funny thing happened to me last Wednesday.I had a journal to write for the following day but a single topic couldn't come to my mind.

I was just sitting on my chair, resting my elbows on the table, with a pen in my hand over a sheet of paper and I was thinking.

After a little time it was my couch I was sitting on, with a pen in my hand, with my elbows on my knees and I was still thinking. Although I had a title given by my teacher namely "TIME IS BUT THE RIVER I GO A FISHING IN". I didn'r even know what to connect this title to. To life? To the passing of the time?

Well, it could be. Life is the river and I'm the fisher and while I'm fishing life goes on. That is, time goes on, my time goes on, but if my time goes on I could be the river which wouldn't be the same any more but then it's me where I go a fishing in?

So I'm the river and life is the fisher? No, it was too much. It was high time I found out a good title for my writing because time really went on. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, to my greatest happiness a title, a poor little title lighted my brain and clouds seemed to have gone away from the grey sky.

I said "that's it! Why on earth hasn't it opened my eyes before? That's it, this is what I'm writing about." Irony in Life was my title. I whipped out my sheet of paper and strated to write finally. After an hour I realized that only silly things were being written on the paper and I started to think again stiing on my chair, with my elbows on the table and with my pen in my hand. "Irony? What is irony actually? Play of faith? Grimace of life? Well, life is full of irony and now I don't have enough time to write them all."

Then somebody knocked on the door of my room, which saved me from the thick word of my thoughts for a couple of minutes. It was my mother who brought the dinner into my room and who was watching me with worrying eyes because one and a half hour had passed and not more than five sentences covered the quarter of my sheet of paper. Then I ate my dinner, sat down on the couch and started to think again and I had to decide that the title of my writing could be nothing else but: Time Is But The River I Go A Fishing In.

Körömi Csilla (1999)