This morning I went into the kitchen. My life, I thought, is built on quicksand. It shifts from one day to the next. Things I think I know are wrong, things I am certain of, facts about my life, myself, belong to years ago. All the history I have reads like fiction. Dr. Nash, Ben, Adam, and now Claire. They exist, but as shadows in the dark. As Strangers, they criss cross my life, connecting, disconnecting. Elusive, ethereal. Like Ghosts.
And not just them. Everything. It is all invented. Conjured from nothing. I am desperate for solid ground, for something real, something that will not vanish as I sleep. I need to anchor myself.
Before I Go To Sleep - S.J. Watson