from my diary, 18 September 2014
Feeling a tiny bit terrified about what’s going to happen, but mostly just feeling exhausted. My whole body is tired and my mind is tired, just slow sighs and sleepy eyes. Too much all at once, I think, is what happened. And then my mind started playing new tricks on me. Not the old ones, the ones I understand, the ones I can handle. No. New tricks like burning fingertips, seeing the same people twice, the ever-burning question of is this really real? And now a new wave of differential diagnosis. And in everything, the fear.
from my diary, 3 April 2013
Lemonwater and ice.
It’s difficult not to miss the strangeness of it all, really. Sometimes, I glance outside and half-expect to see the seaside. I asked my mum what her favourite things about living by the sea were. She said:
i. The way the salt sticks to my skin.
ii. The sound of foghorns at midnight.
You are death and you are dying. And no one can save you. All I can think is: I am small, I am small, I am small.
“You don’t ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It’s all about survival; it’s all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in.”
Nick Hornby, How to Be Good
Les chats de Willy Ronis, Paris, 1954 (x)
“Introverts are collectors of thoughts, and solitude is where the collection is curated and rearranged to make sense of the present and future.”
Laurie Helgoe, “Revenge of the Introvert” in Psychology Today
Bletchley Park during WWII (x