Time is lost on me. It always has been. To me, the most sensible thing about time is that the clock is a perfect circle. I keep coming back here; back to this place, but on a different day and with a different set of eyes. I read an old journal this morning. Nearly by accident, but not exactly. It had been lying there in my closet waiting for a home after a recent unpacking. Before I retired it to the drawer where I retire things, I gave it one last look. A page from another life. Same person, different day, different set of eyes, lighter pressure on the pen. A page full of certainty and also full of questions. It’s always strange to read the things you’ve hoped for in the past because by now those hopes may be spoken for or gone, transformed or altogether forgotten. Like time, hope can be so senseless. It can carry us up mountains or lie us in the quicksand. But like time, hope is unstoppable, inevitable, and blind. Sometimes we travel fast, hurdling towards the unknown, sometimes the unknown comes hurdling towards us while we watch time standing still.'




I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.


I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way.

Goodnight, love.