There is much to explain. I don’t know how to begin. Time has disappeared. I struggle to make sense of where it went. The wheels we are caught in never stop—its easy to forget this. We feel we are masters of time; we feel in control of the days we inhabit, but they slip by unnoticed like looters in the night and take something precious with them.
I have not written much since Christmas. I didn’t feel the desire to.
There have been barriers, some seemed insurmountable.
My father fell ill in the winter, my mother passed away as spring started. Senselessness replaced her. I found myself asking what is the point? She struggled a hard life across continents and for what? I felt like a beggar in the cold watching Time and Death walk by with sneering glances. Where do we all go in the end? What lasts of us? ‘What are days for?’ asked Philip Larkin. ‘They are to be happy in: / Where can we live but days?’ Who knows what lies beyond the dusk or whether nighttime is eternal? What else do we have but days? We should make the most of them.