Headache and bad stomach from partying until late, at Bo’s in Malmoe. Dumn call on my part. Won’t do it again. Have I said that before? This time I mean it. ~~~ Reading ‘What Lies Did I Tell?’ by William Goldman. Talks wonderfully about being a writer, any kind of writer, living off ones own experiences and, most notably with him, fear. Main words, ‘darkness’ and ‘soul’. So there I’m reading and trying to learn how to be a better screenwriter, for the better and worse of the hell of it. And, yes, I think he’s on to the right thing, but as it turns out I had no idea. For: On and on he goes about what makes him tick, his sympathies for dumb heroic deeds. Then I put his personal spell behind me and look into what he has to say about developing a storyline. And he gives helpful hints, yes, and offers some real-life stories about this and that and this autistic kid who survived in the wilderness for four days on his own, miracle that he did, how could he have managed without God’s personal intervention. And … tears start streaming down my face, and pretty soon I’ll have to do some serious controlling so as not to break down in sobbing my eyes out. And worry the shit out of the girlfriend. And there I am looking back to when I was a child, and the only damn memory I can think of is of sitting on the training-potty in the bathroom learning how to take a dump but not being able to get it right. And that’s it – for six years until I went to Kindergarten and got to be social around other kids, that’s the one fucking singular thing I remember from six years of childhood!? ~~~ I have told others I have only happy memories from my childhood. It’s a lie. At best a half-truth. I have happy memories from my childhood, from around age six and up. Not all of them happy. And all before that, it’s a blur. Apart from the lingering recollection of taking a dump -how’s that one for the scrap-book – there is nothing. I can think of nothing at all. And I have thought. Hard. ~~~ Takes no Sigmund to realize I’m on to something here. Shit, Sherlock, something wants out. Something by those six years is not done with me, pulls me back into that darkness. Only now there’s the light from all around me, here in my present, so I’ll find my way back easily. Sure. Only, that is: If I decide to go back. And, to be totally frank, right now, it’s not such a pleasing prospect. Let me go one better: I’m scared. I’m scared stiff. This will potentially alter everything I have always lived by! Shit, these are the feelings over which I have no influence what so ever. Appearing in a time when I don’t feel much in need of them, and wish they’d rather leave me the hell alone. Will I have a choice in the matter? Of course I will. On paper, at least I will have. But right now, I don’t know. I just don’t know. Would it leave me alone, if I extended the same courtesy to it? Cannot say. Seems unlikely. I’m scared. If I find this out, and I’ll turn into an asshole because of it? Basically, I don’t know what the hell lies down there, in that darkness, I could release all kinds of shit and fuck myself up for good. And that’s one of my choices? I dunno. I just don’t know. If I don’t, will I ever be able to do justice to the child that I’ll soon enough be a father to. Do I risk carrying this shit with me, unconsciously handing it over to that kid? Then there’s no choice. I’ll have to find out. Soon. Damn this. Damn this shit, eternally. I was happy living by myself, at times a bit down because… Bullshit. I was crap. I felt like shit. I wanted someone to be with. Now I can’t handle it. Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger. ~~~ Now what? Now I’ll come up with an answer. For all looks and appearances, I can’t not deal with it. Only matter is how I choose to do it. Feelings. Damn them. Straight back into the darkness they came from. ~~~ Tomorrow Monday. Work will do me good. Am hoping for a quiet day.