From My Diary 17 September

The only time I feel anything like content (let alone happy) is when I’m asleep. And only then precisely because I don’t, can’t, feel never mind think. Only then is there any forgetting of the current situation. Only then is there any release from the hopelessness that has settled so heavily on me; from that feeling of futility in whatever I do.

The days have become attempts to find things to help them pass, to speed them along until it’s time to sleep. An attempt to read deeply of the book of forgetting. Even sleep is a fickle swine, remaining out of reach with a sneer as I turn and turn in the narrowing sheets, and that gingerly to avoid the agonising calf cramp that always seems on the point of striking. When sleep does finally arrive, I’d feel relief if I could feel.



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