So walking along this road now, this road that I've walked along ten thousand
times before, with my red hair and my little black skirt and my office girl's
green jacket, I notice people passing me, checking me, weighing me up. Trying to
find something out about me by the face I show to the world. Exactly the same as
we all do; guessing, not knowing for sure and I just keep my feet going on and
my heart and my mind ticking over, because my love still lives in me in a way he
doesn't in anyone else and until I decide the time has come I can't allow that
to die. Even if I wanted to explain it to someone I wouldn't know where to
begin. It's drummed into you from the day you're born that the past is something
you move away from and a normal person would realise that and get on with living
their life. Find somebody new and let the memory fade...organically, I suppose,
till it finds its natural level, in among all the other things that are
finished, dead and gone. But I'm not a normal person. I'm mental, I've been in a
mental home, I've had tests done and results produced and files opened about me.
I've been discussed by serious people, in comfortable chairs round polished wood
tables, people who nod their heads very slowly to show they've understood
something and rattle their pens against their teeth while waiting their turn to
speak. I've taken drugs, all sorts of drugs, and they've reacted over the years
with whatever it is in my head so that now I sometimes feel physically sick
unless I can look out of the window and I get this frightening thing where it's
like I'm not seeing through my own eyes. And my sexual habits are a little
unusual and I don't see what's so good about having fun all the time. So, all in
all, I'm not normal. I'm a bit strange as it goes.