Gargantuan

I went out this morning to look at the world, have some breakfast and watch the water for a moment or two. Cold and bright, an ice-blue sky, hard sharp-edged buildings with perfect outlines. Sunlight-speckled waves.

I wish I lived somewhere snowy.

I've been getting the "You've lost so much weight!" remarks the last week or so. It's nice, but I wish they wouldn't. I think it warns my brain that something good might be about to happen, and it naturally veers toward doom and disaster again. The more static I am, the less I move each day, the easier it becomes to continue the slide.

How do we get that way, where we seek ruin and shun good fortune?

At a crucial point, age eight or nine, do we decide that loss and isolation are safer?

Tomorrow morning, first thing, supermarket. If I walk along the foreshore, I know the day will go well no matter what else happens. Mornings are important.