for the French version, click here
In my darkest and most ludicrous thoughts, I had this film on my mind: Castaway. Tom Hanks played a man who survived a plane crash and landed on a deserted island ; I remember scenes when he got injured because he couldn’t open the cans that had miraculously beached at his feet. This is what I was thinking about when I stole the can-opener in one of the seedy hotels I rented during my Parisian week, not knowing what would ever become of me, not knowing where my ravings would lead me, not knowing if, in a fit of insanity – or lucidity – I would decide to jump over a bridge and put an end to everything. As a response to my letter, C wrote something like “you could have left in a more dignified way”. I answered that my disappearance was, in a way, a failed suicidal. In the sense that I had seriously thought about killing myself but hadn’t had enough courage to do it.
In my luggage, I even have a butcher knife (8’’ blade) – Tiaan saw it and his mouth fell open. I told you (in a previous post) not to tell me it’s dangerous to go around naked. Luckily, Jonathan’s maid didn’t put her nose in my stuff, or she would have been horrified.