He had only ever written things down in here to put them aside, as if an attempt at some sort of therapy, once written, seeming somehow like a problem solved. Never reflecting on the revelations he had made, never revisiting the admissions he had just accepted. But perhaps he didn’t want to accept them… Until now. He continues:
I can’t imagine life any other way than it is now… fractured… Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine my life without her being in any way positive. The content of life, the details, don’t really matter if the context is shit.
She was everything to me…
Short notes of one or two sentences on whole pages made up the majority of the notebook and he flicks