I am awake in the very early hours of the day, alive to experience the transfiguration of night into day and as I sit, I write notes for an essay that is due to be handed in and listen to Tchaikovsky. I don't always listen to Tchaikovsky when I write essays, but I usually do stay up for a period of 24 hours or more.
Very recently I murdered a child; my own. Read between the lines.
I read Joyce, or rather, the introduction where the dichotomy's of sex/gender were discussed, women as nature, and so on.
This is a fleeting thought:
The woman wants to die- that she may be reborn. The river returns to the sea. The 'little death' that man offers brings 'little' life to her, at the expense of his own.
We murder our child, so that we might both begin to live again.
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