Bon Journal

Black moods

Black is the colour of my hair.

Black is the colour of my eyes.

Black is the colour of my mood.

I fell into a dungeon when I arrived in this little village in Holland on Sunday evening. Everything was still ---- and noticeably dead.

The house is under renovation. There are cement patches everywhere. Dust falls easily from the cracks. It is hardly a place for a lady.

The refrigerator is empty, except for moldy vegetables forgotten for a month.

I walk into the bathroom and see the bricks beneath the half-excavated tiles. It's like seeing the arteries and veins under the skin. Not a pretty sight.

It does not make logical sense to clear out and clean up my beloved house in the vibrant, international city of London, only to leave it for an unfinished house in a dead village.

I become as dead as the village as I face the cold winter ahead, one that promises to be much colder than London. I don't know anyone here except for an old classmate who lives on the other side of this country.

It does not make sense.

But then, love is not logical.

6 January 2004 Tuesday

Previous journal entries on dark moods:

5 May 2001
Inaction

25 June 2001
Dark moods

14 April 2002
Blacker than grey

20 January 2003
Sunshine, a ray of hope