The river

Why can't you all stay. Life is so short that I get claustrophobic.

One night I sit in a friend's kitchen and on the halfway of the wine bottle she tells me about panic attacks in which one feels as close to death as possible, still being alive. "The worst one can go through, and that a hundred times." She spills wine on her dress and as I do the dishes I think about how much I love her and her tiny apartment, the painted walls and the photograph beside the bed. I love the fact that there is someone with whom I can talk about death.

These years have made me live. I've learned to relax. I've learned to reveal some of myself. I've learned to express my endless excitement by running and shouting and waving my hands. And still I'm afraid that I will never in my life find a way to express my inner love for living, the strange fear and will for adventure. I'm disappointed with myself, because what used to make me live nowadays makes me dull and I have a terrible need for a congenial company, mad experiences and the bizarre and exciting feeling of being one with the world.

I get out of this head by filling my thoughts with people and often that seems to be the only way out. She said, "sometimes it breaks my heart and sometimes it’s killing me", and I could say the same about so many things.