Christmas is around the corner with all its awkward traps and disappointments. The holiday might be most magical, when you are a child, but rapidly turns into a big ball of obligations, as soon as you are old enough to make personal decisions. As a kid, December used to be my favorite time. When we went to the countryside to see my grandparents and sometimes the snow-walls even reached above my head.
It’s been two weeks. Sixteen days, to be exact, since I got sick. Without my diary, I would not know for how many days I’m already here, or what date it is today. I could check the calendar on my computer, but the diary feels more safe. It adds stability to the strange world I’m living in at the moment.
Dead birds. I start to see them again.
Dead birds everywhere. Revealing their tiny bones and skulls. Broken wings on grass and pavement.
The summer of dead birds was one year ago. After the humiliation, after the terror of an broken ego, after the confusion about who the person is I once loved, the city was plastered with dead birds.