I'm sitting at my desk, in the darkness only yet another candlelight breaks. I drew the curtains wide open to gaze into the night sky... There are no stars in the nightsky, just an edless cortege of deep gray clouds, like a forgotten old veil dragged away by some distant, alien God.

I left the window half opened to let the cold and damp air swirl in, and my ears are filled with music such as this one. It's from the Tristan and Isolde soundtrack, and it seems to capture my mood tonight rather perfectly.

I remember being away from home when I watched that movie; in fact, I was abroad at the time. I watched the green moors and drenched landscapes, the almost constant mist of rain washing over more deep green hills that ran as far as the eye could see... and that's when I realised that I missed home... that's when I realised that this rainy island had become home to me. How this happened, I do not know, but it happened.

When I now think of Paris, it feels more like a distant dream. It was the city of my childhood, and though I still remember where we used to live, and what some of the streets used to look like, my memories keep growing hazier with every day that passes. In a way, I wanted it to happen. I wanted a long time to pass before I would ever go back again, so that my memories of that city would grow as old and crackled as an old black and white photograph in my head... immortalising that passage in time in the most perfect way.

... So that the past no longer bears the ruthlessness of reality, but my own version of perfected memories, much like a dream I once had but that can never be dreamed again.

Sometimes I like to close my eyes and hold out a hand in front of me. I imagine the gentle touch of someone else's hand on mine, warm and loving... but when I open my eyes again, there is only coldness and emptiness to be stared at.

I shouldn't be here, for I belong to the realm of dreams and fantasy... does that sound crazy?
Yet here I am. Yes... Here I am, with only my mind and heart forming a bridge toward the way back where I belong.

Someday someone will say: "She was here... but we didn't see her...We never saw her in time."

Looking, but never seeing.
Hearing, never listening.
Talking, but never thinking.
Existing, but barely living.
Sensing, but hardly feeling.

That's the problem with this world.