It's the story that counts. No use telling me this isn't a story, or not the same story. I know you've fulfilled everything you promised, you love me, we sleep till noon and we spend the rest of the day eating, the food is superb, I don't deny that. But I worry about the future. In the story the boat disappears one day over the horizon, just disappears, and it doesn't say what happens then. On the island that is. It's the animals I'm afraid of, they weren't part of the bargain, in fact you didn't mention them, they may transform themselves back into men. Am I really immortal, does the sun care, when you leave will you give me back the words? Don't evade, don't pretend you won't leave after all; you leave in the story and the story is ruthless.- Margaret Atwood, from the "Circe" poems
There are reasons why I'm sleeping alone tonight, not all of which I want to think through. At least it's clear space for a while, and I may be glad of it in time to come. I found an old entry which said I believed that one should give and hazard all - and it is a sign of age or common sense or some hardening of the emotional fibres - that I am afraid, for no discernible reason, for the first time I can remember in recent years, to do so, just like that. You give me what you can, with an easy, careless generosity, but my limits are so much more easily breached. Is it enough, will it be enough, do I want it to be enough, to just take the beauty of these days, as gently as we can, and lift them high above the debris of everyday life? Am I truly immortal, does the sun care, when you leave will you give me back the words? How much will you leave behind when your boat disappears over the horizon, what am I hoping to be left with?