20^th November 2001

Its much after midnight and this had to written down or no rest would come to my mind. Sometimes I lie awake wondering. It’s a terrible habit to keep since the mind should be at rest whilst in bed. Anyhows.. I always wonder, emotions aside, does he think? Do they think? The way we make a novelty of replaying every sight, smell, touch?

In spirit she walks the city, traces it’s labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what ther did then. Even the time they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?

Sometimes she wants to put a match to him, have done with him; finish with that endless, useless longing. At the very least, daily time and entropy of her own body should take care of it-wear her threadbare, wear her out, erase that place in her brain. But no exorcism has been enough, nor has she tried very hard at it. Exorcism is not what she wants. She wants that terrified bliss, like falling out of an airplane by mistake. She wants his famished look.

Pg. 499-500.

The Blind Assassin

By Margaret Atwood.

Somehow this passage evoked a very familiar aura about things that were. And which I hope isn’t how things are still.

Goodnight cariad.

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