My fingers slipped, I banged my knees on the cliff edge, my heart tattered and my lungs contracted, leaving me breathless and falling. And down there, on that plain? No, it doesn't look so beautiful. Not at all. I am falling.
I am angry, but my anger is swallowed by sadness.
I cannot write of this now. I just can't. So, instead, please allow me a bit of self-flagellation and I am going to write of old things, my childhood, just for a while, those safe, happy memories where everything seemed simple. I know they weren't, really, but the difficulties get lost with time. Like a pencil drawing that has lines filled in with koki-pens. You rub out the miserable grey lines with an eraser, leaving only the bright, beautiful ones, and soon the pencil lines disappear in the mists of time.
Where are my koki-pens now?