Brief summary: meaningless days, sleepless nights.

If I fall asleep, my old friends, the nightmares, arrive again with a new twist: he loses big chunks of fur, but it’s not too late to save him; he runs into the street, but I run after him in panic, and catch him, and he’s alive; I wake up from dreaming, he’s dead. At breakfast, I dread the day that has only begun; I want it to go away again. At one in the afternoon, I wonder to myself what on earth to do with the rest of the day: take a third or fourth walk, when the first walk was already pointless; cook more food or bake more bread, when I have more than I can eat but no appetite, no hunger for food or life; try to read a book and fail after half a page… because although the destiny chosen for me was to become an “intellectual” with my nose stuck in a book — a semi-failed intellectual would suffice, but a complete failure wouldn’t –, there’s still the small problem of having an attention span no longer than that of a fruit-fly, and that’s in ordinary circumstances. With mr Dog in my life there seemed to be at least some point to struggling, to forcing myself to concentrate a little bit on the arid tasks of the brain, not because he cared much about the tragically insignificant intellectual capabilities of the human mind, but my life consisted of reading some book or other and being with him — and there was at least a minimal balance and harmony to that arrangement, as incredible as it may sound to everybody else. Now, with the latter opportunity gone, the former is more pointless than ever, it is no longer a decent way to spend time between things that mattered. I have all these Steiner books that I managed to lay my hands on short before he died; in the four weeks that have now passed, I’ve managed to read a page and a half. I can’t for my life find a way back to caring about anything, except his impossible return.

(Image: there are still a few withering roses in the gardens where we often walked.)