from my diary, 12 October 2014
It has been so long since I have written. My poor, poor bones are so terribly tired and my lungs are feeling perpetually crushed. It’s difficult to bring myself to write the things I haven’t yet told you. There’s too much of it, you see. I had slipped the thimble off my thumb, off my heart, you see, and all the things that prick and poke and pierce, they slipped in as I was worrying about all the ways your heart can Stop. Cross my heart and hope to die.
And now everything has been new medications and medical tests and doctors and all the etceteras. Drowning and not even feeling the drowning and it’s October all over again, like it was Then, exactly as it was Then. It tell myself that this is Real, but what does Real really mean? The rabbit knows, the velveteen one, remember? Everything is so difficult to remember. I’ve searched through all my storybooks for the secret to the Thousand Year Sleep, the Sleeping Beauty Sleep, but there is no magic spell or charm. My bones are whispering, begging for sleep, sleep, sleep and I can’t tell them to wait any longer.
When they find my bones, will they wonder?