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Day 7 of Isolation - 19/10/07
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I couldn't sleep.

"It's funny how memories -the funny stuff you keep in your head- are like little cans of food. They can be preserved for a very long time, sometimes they fall off the shelves and you lose them, and sometimes...the food inside them goes bad.


When what used to be such a wonderful treat turns sour, you don't even dare to look in. You crack open the lid a bit, peek, and push it away, too afraid to confront what it has become. These become (in Freudian terms) repressed memories. Subconsciously, your brain, the ever-so-vigilant floor manager packs up the spoiled cans in a crate, and ships it somewhere to the back of the warehouse.


Perhaps in storage. somewhere in a dark corner, where they are not to be disturbed. But sometimes, late at night, while you are working in that warehouse alone, looking through the millions of small boxes, you comes across one of those cans again. Maybe it's in a box - maybe it's at your feet. You recall what was inside, and wonder if you should open it, but something stops you, and you drop it - as if scalded. That's the voice of the floor manager, warning you, telling you, not to open it, lest you hurt yourself again.


It's like a book in a library. You pick it up, read its spine. This book used to be quite a great one. It contained such a wonderful part of your life. You open it, and discovered everything has changed. It has been vandalised, scrawled over in ink, the pages ripped out, the words foul, and the pictures altered. Nothing is the same anymore.
Neither is your life.