Captains-log.

I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the colour of forgotten love.

That’s how you know you love someone, I guess, when you can’t experience anything without wishing the other person were there to see it, too.

I am alone. I know that now. Perhaps I always will be.

I am carrying such weights of absolute sadness that I must at any moment be dragged down into the deepest sea and the person trying to seize or even “rescue” me would give up, not from weakness, not even from hopelessness but from sheer annoyance.

I am tired of knowing nothing and being reminded of it all the time.

I am tired of knowing nothing and being reminded of it all the time.

A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.

I would love to believe that when I die I will live again, that some thinking, feeling, remembering part of me will continue. But much as I want to believe that, and despite the ancient and worldwide cultural traditions that assert an afterlife, I know of nothing to suggest that it is more than wishful thinking. The world is so exquisite with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there’s little good evidence. Far better it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides.

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.