I’m still waiting.
For it all to go wrong, for time and me to diverge horribly, I’m splitting up inside into the mad, mad flesh of me, and the real me, who in this bizarre but oddly accurate metaphor is the tough rind, bark, skin, something like an orange – becuase this skin is both who I really am, and who I am trying to continue to be. The mad me, the fleshy bit, is absolutely an aberration. Sometimes she’s there and sometimes she isn’t.
At this stage she still might go away, leave me in peace. Essentially I am in Limbo.
