This is how it starts. With tomorrows. I’ll write something down tomorrow. I call tomorrow. And tomorrow becomes another tomorrow. Another week. Month.
Time does not really count anymore between my and my daughter. It is in tiny little pieces, lighter than air, non-existent. It does exist only on paper when trying to make a rational recollection, but in terms of pain, time is gone. Like the Piero and Alicia who were talking to each other, playing together.
I suppose it is all about pain. Of not being able to reach my hand and stay in touch; of having to imagine in my daydream what it would be like the day me and Alicia shall meet again. Of doubting that day will ever come.
So the bubble comes in to save me. I do not close everything in it as my wife always says, I lock myself in it, so everything seems less painful, more endurable; so that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it is fake and I know well, I know first, cause almost everything in my bubble is made up, filtered. Not real.
And this is all cyclical with me. Happens in ups and downs, like a sort of illness which comes visiting me seasonally. Like hay fever I used to catch every blessed May and early June, from my middle teens to my early forties. More than a quarter of a century