Feverish Woolf

The Waves perplexes me. I've put it down more than once, thinking to myself how odd it reads, how I can't make head or tails of it. I pull the book into bed with me in the early morning as my husband sleeps. I read the first lines, I read them again. I make it four pages in and I have a headache. I fall asleep to my love's breathing. The day is set off in rhythms, like the sound of the tide. I feel it all as a rhythm, even my thinking ebbs in and out. This is what Woolf has done to me: gotten into my head. I try to read something else, to put some distance between myself and her words. Nothing seems to work and I feel I must go back. I must finish and whatever that makes me: I will be better for it.