Far away, in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter
2003-03-29 || 2:15 p.m.

I keep thinking about strange and weird things and getting very confused. When I woke up this morning I couldn't remember whether I had really killed myself or whether that was still in the future. I seem to remember being in a hospital and knowing I was not going to come out.

I keep thinking about things from long ago and wondering why. I mean, what is the point. I keep thinking about being a child and I wonder if it is because I am at the end of my life. Like some sort of full circle thing.

One night sticks out in my mind. There was a power cut and I was sitting reading by candle light. I was reading The Wild Swans by Hans Christian Anderson. I remember crying my eyes out at the brothers being powerless and only being able to be themselves at night. I remember being so appalled at her and her brothers not being able to find each other. Being so separated and yet knowing you are searching for something. The story hurt me so much and yet I just kept reading it over and over again. I still have it somewhere.

These things are always about time, about travel, about longing and loss.

And you know, I'd go back to bed if it wasn't for the fact that I need to go and buy hay for the guinea pig, sea salt for my piercing and matches so we can eat something.