"Sometimes, like today, I get the feeling that he may just die – as he moves slow, unsteady and unspeaking from the chair to the bed and back. Fascination, and a strange sense of repulsion, are the emotions that surge as each tussle of whether to touch him (and see if he is cold yet) or simply leave him be (and hope he wakes up later) is fought in the back corridors of my mind. Inevitably, simply-leave-him-be wins, because I cannot care less. I know I should, I know I should, I KNOW I should; yet I fear his death not because it will bring me emotional pain, but because it will bring that pain to others around me whom I love.
I do not want to be like him, this man whom I have been forcefully associated with.
I do not want to be his miniature."
And in case you're wondering, no, it's not going to be an oestrogen-fuelled outpouring of my life story; it'll be part fact, part fiction, and part goodness-knows-what. For I have a vague idea of what my story will be, but it will probably change beyond recognition as i go along.
And will more installments appear? Perhaps.
Stay tuned!
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