At the risk of being annoyingly self-obsessed while everybody else worries about things like politics and the fate of the world, which at the present moment I can’t muster the least bit of interest in: yesterday evening I read a couple of pages in the book I was reading last Monday, a book about religious beliefs in Sweden, the book I read before everything happened, before everything changed. (The author thinks Rudi’s name was Rudolph, curiously making the same mistake as bad websites in English.) It’s banal, yet strange: the book continuing, as though everything is the same, on the page that I left it, when he was still here. Yes, I know it is self-obsessed; it is also naive: to imagine, irrationally, that the rest of the world must change because my world has changed so drastically. There is a part of me that knows, and one part that doesn’t. It’s so surreal: like all those times I glance towards the place where his dog bed was, expecting to find him there. The forces of habit are stronger than I thought; I feel very strongly when it’s time for his walks, in particular in the evening. I don’t have to go out, but doing it starts with an automatic motion. He keeps reminding me, without being here. The memories and habits imprinted on the ether body — is that the explanation? And the emotional bond in the astral realm? Am I missing something? I’m sure you know better; I have forgotten everything about all of that.
I don’t know which is worst: thinking about him all the time or forgetting about him briefly and then remembering again; the brief scare of the latter possibly outweighs the constant distress of the former. But there’s no choosing between the two.
Maybe I will be able to go back to reading my daily bit of Steiner and so on; remembering, once again, the things I used to know. But what should I do with it all?
Bunnies? Yes, please! Bipedal politics? No, thanks.