Love, passion and loss. To live broken-hearted for many feels like a living death. I really do think that some people feel things more than other people. I also believe that there is a hierarchy of emotions.
I fell in love with the paintings of Edvard Munch, because he made a painting called Jealousy that was about himself. I thought it was an incredibly open, self-effacing and defiant thing for a man in the early 20th century to do. By openly displaying his weakness it empowered him and gave him strength.
Drunkenly I walked along the sea front, past the neon, round to the harbour wall. I remember thinking of my childhood at the time, some of my happier times: catching crabs on a hook and line, and a piece of bread for bait; being chased by Tubby, the fat harbour master and hurling ourselves off the end of the jetty wall – we could then swim to the other side of the harbour in fits of giggles as we saw his perspiring, round shape breathlessly wobbling with his attempt to catch us. Now I walked along the jetty; with my clothes on I threw myself into the blackened night sea. As I felt myself go beneath the water I could then feel my feet touch the sand. I bounced back up like a piece of cork. If I wanted to die, I realised I would have to swim out to sea. It was then that I felt stupid and lonely.
I love my passion for life, the ups and the downs. Sometimes they come from outside, and other times they just manifest themselves within me. But today’s sadness is from the outside. And there’s nothing I can do about it apart from try and understand life and its complexities. I know that it always rains on the other side of the mountain.
Today I am like a beauty queen. I want to make the world a better place but I don’t want to travel and speak other languages. I just want to lay in bed and delegate. I want to be in control, or at least take control.