On the Calculation of Volume, Book I

by Solvej Balle

It seems so odd to me now, how one can be so unsettled by the improbable. When we know that our entire existence is founded on freak occurrences and improbable coincidences. That we wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for these curious twists of fate. That there are human beings on what we call our planet, that we can move around on a rotating sphere in a vast universe full of inconceivably large bodies comprised of elements so small that the mind simply cannot comprehend how small and how many there are. That in this unfathomable vastness, these infinitesimal elements are still able to hold themselves together. That we manage to stay afloat. That we exist at all.

Our love has always been microscopic. It is something in the cells, some molecules, some compounds outside our control, which collide in the air around us, sound waves that form unique harmonies when we speak, it happens at the atomic level or even that of smaller particles. There are no precipices or distances in our relationship. It is something else, a sort of cellular vertigo, a sort of electricity or magnetism, or maybe it’s a chemical reaction, I don’t know. It is something that occurs in the air between us, a feeling that is heightened when we are in each other’s company.

I can no longer flow through the day. It seems to have grown too small, either that or I have grown too heavy. To have grown huge and shapeless. A monster cannot flow in and out of a day, a monster is not fluid. It cannot flow into and fill the day’s empty spaces. It overflows. It grows. It cannot hide in the world. A monster rumbles. It rampages. It cannot be still. It cannot play in a quiet orchestra. A monster is slow and heavy. The days begin to go more slowly. I fill. I do not flow. It is me who is slowing things down.