This strange, cutting solitude is slicing through me. It's killing me. I got up at 5 again today, made coffee, had a smoke, and came back to write. Last night I was so sleepy and sad and mildly inebriated that I had fallen asleep as I was dressed in the pub, when I woke up I had raccoon eyes and an aching stomach; not having dinner is becoming a habit. However, early morning was really nice-until I fell asleep again-somewhere around 7:30. Sleep is the brother of death.
Then I dreamed of beaches-it was a lovely beach, but also a backwater beach, with dolphins and little boats and mosquitoes, and the water was greenish and slightly murky, and the beach was just outside this very window. Here where this ugly backyard is. But in this dream I knew I was not only not loved, but that my family and loved ones were receding further and further away into the horizons of that infinite sea, and that I was alone. Alone. This winter is very long. Sometimes, like now, I am convinced I will not survive it.
Margaret, Margaret, or Rosebud- do you know them? Could you tell me where they live? So that on one such winter morning as this, I could creep out of my lonely house, and go walking in the bleak sunshine-looking for addresses and pretty strangers, who give me tea and scones and a little bit of kindness? Margaret is not a woman, you persuasively argue, she is a girl and she is a cruel girl. What of that? I must try my luck. What am I? A young halfwit? In my dream, I also saw I was trying to convince you, but you kept changing the topic.
The dream about the beach was hardest of all. It was not at all like Goa, which is my favourite beach. This was like a pond, except my dream told me it was a beach. I stared at it from this very window, like a stupefied dog asked not to bark by the master.
I have no master, and no slave either.
Perhaps if you are reading this, you will be kind enough to understand. You cannot break a woman's heart by dismissing her as slightly mad. Either you denounce her as a witch, a completely insane genius-or you embrace her as the love of your life. In this either-or plan of things, the middle path of Buddha has no relevance. Come, be my eros and thanatos, let us rediscover how to live.
These days I practise how to die like sophisticated English gentry; sheer boredom and bottled frenzy. I am dying, Oxford, dying. I am dying, my dearest, dying. But you don't care, you timeless and significant proper nouns. There in the rarefied grammar of your existence, madness is typographical error.
While I compose this wretched metaphor, the backyard outside behaves like a chameleon sea-lagoon. This is going to be a long winter.