Cold evening, monkey mindIt's marrow-chillingly cold, though the sun was out earlier and the evening light is soft.
I’m reading a novel by a writer new to me, Andrew Greig. In Another Light. About memory, and near-death, and the feeling of life afterwards. It’s set partly in the Orkneys. A great sense of empty beauty and small community.
It makes me long for a sense of place, to be in the country, not just bits of park and woodland on the edge of the city.
Need what I felt at M’s house in France. The grass and trees pressing into my body, green air in my lungs. Waking with a smile on my face.
On the last evening, walking downhill out of the forest, I saw a deer race out of the trees and across a field. Over so quickly, just a shadow on my retina.
I cried all the way home on the train. Absurd. I never told M. Kept shutting myself in the toilet and trying to stop. Back in my seat, weeping again.
What is it about French trains? The train from Valence, leaving J on the platform, knowing for certain I would never go back because I loved his wife and kids almost as much as I loved him. However did I get here in five minutes while the kettle boiled?
¶ 6:51 pm