I’m not a writer. I’ve never even kept a diary, I’m unpractised, and now the translation of my thoughts between mind and page distorts them. It makes uncomfortable reading. Although I said I would read over this only once each week, there’s a strange fascination in seeing my thoughts given physical existence by this scrappy pencil, a fascination all the more compelling in its unfamiliarity.
I find myself wanting to correct my own spelling and grammar; occasionally I give myself a mental tick for using a pleasing word. But more than that, I’m always hoping something new will strike me as I read – some glimmer of profundity in my own words that I neither consciously wrote, nor noticed on my first review.
It’s a dangerous pursuit to become so involved in this limited subset of my thoughts, to re-examine these words. But maybe that’s what my interrogators - is it wrong to call these polite, suited professionals “interrogators”? - are doing. They asked me questions and I provided basic, truthful, innocent information. More logical today, further from bad dreams, I realise that my recollection about M are pretty insignificant. So what’s next? I presume that they are scrutinising my answers, each time hoping to see that something new in the mundane facts. Or perhaps they’ll simply ask me to repeat it all, hoping to catch me out. When I give the same answers, what then?
I have become more conscious of my punctuation. There’s a futility about all these question marks that depresses me. Suddenly I realise none of us are going to find the answers we want, not me and not them. It’s clear that they want something from me that I can’t give. No matter how many times I read my words, my questions won’t be magically be answered, and no matter how long they spending analysing my answers, one truth anchors them: whatever it was, I didn’t do it. I just have to wait for them to realise this.
I have a low, dull stomach ache too. I think I know what this means.
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