2002-03-18 - 9:16 p.m.
Ochre. I felt ochre all of Saturday. The sickly yellow-green, the hangover and dehydrated hands. Sunday I don't remember. I think I felt a fragile pink. As fragile as the crinkly petals of the periwrinkle. Today was a ghastly ash-grey. Pale and almost colourless. And it faded during the day too. By 6, I was white-washed, but not the bright pristine white you think. More like the dull dust-tainted white. It will be better tomorrow. There were many smiles - of discomfort, mockery, courtesy, genuine nice-ness, and in rebellion. The heart stopped, the face fell. Driving home numb. The sky the colour of my day. A pathetic grey. The wind sweeping up, gathering momentum and specks of dust. Days like that I'm thankful I share my life with nobody. It saves the explaining. And the exasperation of misunderstood meanings and frustration. Sometimes I think I'll soon forget how to share my life at all. And my bed, the quilt, my time.
