What is the essence of living? It is a complicated question, one of great magnitude, I know, and I shall not venture to look for the entire point of living. But just to live… It is unknown to me. Until recently I have been so focused on maintaining the balance that the significance of actually living, not just surviving, never held much importance to me. One might think that I choose an odd time for such explorations. But it is really the only thing I can do. And it is what I need to do. I must teach myself to enjoy life. Laughter. To enjoy the taste of food, and the satisfaction of fulfilled hunger. It will not be easy. But somehow it is a struggle that I look strangely forward to.
It is not all sensations that I have robbed myself of, not everything the rejection of which has been my self-inflicted punishment. I have enjoyed silence. The feeling of wind on my face. The strange, almost vulgar beauty of a sunrise or a sunset, obscene in its choice of colours, yet at the same time incredibly harmonious. The feeling of air, fresh or stale from having been incarcerated for ages, or polluted with sweet, harsh, killing smoke, being drawn into my lungs. Those rare times when art, mine or that from the hands of others, found mercy before my naïve, yet too well-considered standards and demands. And peace in my surroundings, if I could not find it in myself.
I have not mentioned those dark half-pleasurable sensations of cold, deprivation and pain, which I have long subjected myself to, though it shames me to admit it. I am trying to leave them in the past.

It has been a long time since I last chose to share my life. I am sorry. The words went missing, and I found it difficult to start writing again. Perhaps because there seemed to be so many subjects, so many complex situations and problems, new and old, that I had to process, to deal with. I did not know where to begin. Now I think I have no choice but to go on, though I seem to have lost some bits and pieces along the way. I think I buried them too deep, and forgot or suppressed the exact placement of their temporary grave. Maybe they will rise and return to me one day, and I can recount everything then.
But I cannot stop now, even if it feels so very wrong to ignore what I have lost. At least I can hope that the thoughts inspired by those memories and events are still kept safely hidden somewhere in my mind, even if I cannot or am not able to tell anyone about them at the moment.
Some do still appear as distinctly to me as the day they happened. Strange midnight visits, a startling encounter with my one old foe and a hidden dimension to a friend revealed. Of the three, the latter was far more important. Yet in some way entirely without importance. But he knows my thoughts and what I feel concerning that disclosure, so I suppose I should cast any guilt about refraining to write about the matter right now aside.
Then what will I write about? Those days that I am able to recount with no great obstacles, I suppose. One such followed not many days after my brief interview by the police.

( Abatement )

If I thought that my world had settled into normality, that this recent transformation of spirit was all I would go through regarding such changes, then I was very wrong.
A couple of days following the experience in the silo, the police paid me a visit. They knocked on my front door, now thoroughly locked and barred. I had a fairly accurate notion about who would be on the other side, and opened the door enough to allow me to look out, and them to catch a glimpse of me. The officer in charge stated my name, and asked if I was that person. I nodded. He wanted a quick word with me, asking if I would let them in. I could not really think of a good reason not to, so I did. It would have seemed suspicious if I had denied them entrance. We stood in the front hall. The detectives looked at the surroundings and especially at the paintings.
“So… I am sure you have noticed all the commotion outside during the last couple of days?”
I nodded.
“Then I am sure you have also heard of why we are here.”
I nodded again. He opened his notebook, readying his pen.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Some people were… killed.”
He nodded. “Yes… Some police officers. Four of them, in fact.”
I said nothing.
“But there is something else as well… Do you know why they were there?”
I shook my head. He regarded me for a moment.
“Well, we received a tip-off about the Christian A-. case… Surely you must have heard about that?”
I told him that I had.
“Yes, who hasn’t… Now, let’s see… Where you home on the… 26th of June?”
I confirmed that I had been. He nodded and scribbled a note.
“On that night… did you notice anything unusual…? A noise, lights, people…? Anything?”
I told him that I had not, not before the sirens in the early morning, and even them I had taken no particular notice of, being not far from a firestation. He nodded again and wrote yet another note.
“Well then… That is odd, because what happened on that night very close to here, should have made some noise at least.” He looked up from his notes.
I once again stated that I had not, the rather thick walls of the factory taken into consideration, it was not so strange that I had not heard anything.
“I suppose not…” he said. “And in the days before that? Did you notice anything out of the usual? Anything at all?”
I once again told him that I had not. He nodded slowly, endlessly writing notes.
“What about on the… 14th… Did you see anyone walking around on the harbour?”
I had not, seeing as I had not been outside that day. He nodded. His colleague just stood behind him, staring at the paintings.
After a few more questions, they left. As I walked them to the door, I noticed that there were more police officers outside, standing along the wall a bit further down my building. At that spot… I think the detective turned around in time to see my face. I said goodbye and closed the door. He just had time to say that they might be back with more questions. And they did return.

There are other subjects that I would rather write about at the moment. But I must follow the trail, write everything in the order it happened in. It has been too long since I last left off. But that night is nevertheless the point at which I must continue.

I do not know if it was right of me to ask Grae to come with me.
The police had by then begun a search of the entire harbour, running lead weights over the bottom and sending down divers. Their attention had moved somewhat away from the silo. They had closed off all of this area of the harbour to anyone but those with a justified reason to enter. So perhaps they did not feel the need to watch over the silo as intently as they did before. This might have been my only chance to look inside, if indeed I found myself able to get in.
It was difficult for me to ask him. It was after all extremely illegal, and potentially dangerous, and I had no wish to expose him to any sort of danger. He strongly feels the same about me, I think, which is most likely why he agreed to come with me, when he discovered that I would not change my mind about going.
He showed up well-prepared and seemed very professional. If I am ever to do something like this again, and I certainly hope I do not have to, then I cannot think of anyone I would rather have there with me than him. I mean that in several ways.
There was a single guard outside, standing a bit away, with his back turned. Grae got us in very quickly. I did my best to be as quiet as he, but I do not think I was amazingly successful. Yet we were not discovered.
As we got in, I turned on the torch that Grae had brought. The inside of the silo looked as one would derive from seeing the outside, the room was completely round. A staircase spiralled upwards, following the wall. There was only one door, the one we had entered though, and if the silo had any windows, they were so high up that we could not see them in the gloom. It was sparsely furnished. But the first thing the light hit, and therefore the first thing I noticed, was a large and old wooden tall-backed chair standing in the middle of the room. I approached it slowly. Running the torch over it revealed a multitude of cuts and odd holes in it. But the stains were the worst part. There was no doubt in my mind about what they consisted of. His blood. And so much of it. Down the chair. On the floor and on the walls. Tracing the trails of it with the cone of light, my eyes reached a table standing at one side of the silo. I walked closer. The tabletop was littered by countless metal objects, neatly marked with little pieces of paper, to proclaim them as evidence. What their uses were, was in some cases a mystery to me, but I had no doubt that their prime purpose was the advancement of pain. A scalpel was lying on the floor, the blade traced with blood. It had been circled in white. I turned away from the appalling tools, followed the light to the other side of the room and the bed. Part of the sheets must also have been taken as evidence, because neat little squares of fabric had been cut out. I did not deceive myself as to what they were evidence of. As we were about to leave, I almost tripped over a metal bucket. Looking down into it, as I regained my balance, I saw that it contained ashes and the remnants of coal.
We managed to sneak out of there undiscovered. At first there was only silence, in my mind and on my lips. As we arrived back at my home, the words, or rather the emotional reaction announced its presence. But it was different from what I think I had expected.
I have never wished such a thing on anyone, not even on him, though if anyone in my life ever deserved it, it was surely him. I did not know how to feel. He was so close to my home all this time. If I had listened for it, I might even have heard him scream. I was not sure how I should feel about the experience he must have gone through in there.
The place itself was largely as I suppose I had somehow expected. What surprised me somewhat were the certain similarities I think I saw. It was mostly the coal that triggered it, but the overall ambience of the place, one of torture and reveling in it to a more than perverted degree, it seemed too familiar. Almost too familiar to be a coincidence. I know that the proposed perpetrator of these atrocities reads or at least read my journal. So he would have known about it all. And if he did, was it then because of me that he took him? Not to avenge me, for I do not see that strange boy to be the type, but nevertheless, did Christian only become interesting to him because I wrote what I did?
The similarities may only have appeared in my mind anyway. I suppose that in essence, there can only be so many ways to torture someone. But even if what I wrote was part of the reason behind it, I cannot accept responsibility for anyone else's actions.
After a while, when I had digested these thoughts, a strange calmness descended upon me. I discussed my feelings on the subject thoroughly with Grae. I appreciated the sentiments that must lie behind his strong feeling of resentment, almost hate towards the person who hurt me. Though I could not help but think that it was not merely because of our friendship that he felt that way. But as we talked about that deep form of animosity, I discovered something about myself. I do not hate him. I do not wish for revenge. I would not allow my mind to have room for such destructive, all-encompassing obsessions. He is not worth it. It may be abnormal. But that is how I felt. I am not saying that I have forgiven him, far from it. But maybe... Maybe some day I can reach that point. And then I shall truly have moved on. If I felt anything in his direction at that particular moment, then it was something close to pity. After all, through all those years, he was the weaker one of us. I still did wonder if I would ever see him again, and how he would act towards me now, if he was out there, if he was alive. But it was not important.
Grae expressed admiration that I was able to not hate. I do not know if I deserve admiration for it, but I was grateful for his support and trust. As I am in all matters.
By now I think he knows he has mine as well.

How does one describe the events that a life is comprised of? To me, there is no luck, only things that happen and things that do not, yet fate seems to be an insufficient word and term. You can go through life being almost entirely alone, yet you can never free yourself of the web of actions of the rest of the world, it will always return to impose its effect on your life. Not that I necessarily wish it to not do so. Every occurrence holds its own points of interest, no matter how terrifying it may be at the exact moment that it takes place, and no matter what devastating consequences it may seem to have at first. Every event, every thought holds its own chances. A chance and a choice to learn, perhaps.
To sum up, my life has been rather eventful lately, not just in my mind, but on a more tangible level as well.
I noticed the stir caused by police cars further down the harbour some days after my last entry. It is quite unusual to see one, much less such a multitude of members of the police force out here, so I instantly felt a touch of curiosity, though I told myself that whatever tragedy or drama their investigation centred upon, it hardly had anything to do with me, and I should stay away. I suppose I did have a subconscious negative feeling about it, but finally I could contain my curiosity no longer and went to look at what was going on. The activity was concentrated on a large long abandoned silo. Several vans were present, and people who were obviously scientists or technicians of some sort, dressed in white suits, the entire scene enclosed in tape telling people not to enter. Quite obviously something severe and extraordinary had happened. I found myself to be the only spectator there, so my presence did not seem to be instantly unacceptable to the police, though whatever the commotion was all about, it was most definitely serious in nature. It took me a long while to gather the courage to ask what was going on, as I stood a bit away, trying to look casual. I engaged a policeman who stood by the tape by himself. I was smoking and I had noticed that he looked hungrily at my cigarette when I approached. I do not believe in luck, but that craving in him was definitely conclusive to my case. I offered him one and he accepted it gratefully. In spite of myself I managed to hit up some light conversation, as people say, about the proceedings and he answered me without any airs, that he was unsure of what was going on, but that it had to do with a possible abduction case, perhaps even the Christian A. case. He told me with a grave face that four policemen had been killed there the night before. I think I managed to not disclose any emotion in my face at his words. I nodded and continued the conversation a little bit longer. They had received a tip-off, he said. Behind him, some of his colleagues seemed suddenly to gain an added edge of business. One of them quickly ran up to him and mumbled to him, and though the tone of his words was designed to make the message unheard by me, I caught the substance of it. That the blood tests had come back, and that it was definitely his. I needed not ask which the person they referred to, even if it had been appropriate for me to ask anything. They exchanged some complaints about how this was going to cause a lot of trouble, then he turned back to me and smiled joylessly and apologetically, probably realising that he should not have been talking to me, saying that he was afraid I had to leave now. I told him that it was no problem and went home, keeping the questions in my mind tightly sealed under a layer of uneasiness and resoluteness. A strange mixture, but it performed its intended function.
But I could not keep them away for long. What was that place and what had it to do with him? I had thought that surely he must have died from the fall or soon after. Yet his blood was in there, they said, and he could not have crept in there himself. But if he was mortally wounded, why was his body not present? A diminutive thought, aspiring to be rational, crept in, saying that perhaps it had been discarded in the harbour. It might be. Then another thought struck me, one that had been with me for a while, lying ignored, but now quiet yet strangely horrifying. The strange boy who saved me. When I met him that night between the buildings he said that he had a workshop down here, and gestured in the direction of the silo. Did that have any significance…?
I had a strong urge to go and see that place for myself. I could not explain it, and I still cannot quite. I wondered if they would have posted guards all though the night, and other things of an almost practical, yet entirely unrealistic nature. The impulse remained with me for days, as I stayed inside, working and reading, going about my life as usual. Usual in the way that I define the word, anyway.
In the end I called Grae.

Yesterday I saw his face again, on the front page of a tabloid. He has been declared missing. I wonder if the police will find their way here. I have gotten thoroughly rid of any trace of him that I have been able to find, and his jacket was claimed by my strange rescuer, but I still fear that there is something I may have overlooked. But what could possibly lead them here? There is one thing, my portrait. As far as I recall, I did not sign it with anything else than a j. But… that nervous young woman, perhaps she knew that he was going here that day. If she did, she has apparently not told anyone, because I have not received any unwanted guests as of yet. Certain parts of her visit that day make more sense now. She must have unmistakably been his current girlfriend or something similar. I suppose I could find a few similarities between us on the surface. She had dark hair and a slender frame, not particularly endowed with female characteristics as I recall it. This likeness is what she must have seen in me, when she said that that of course I was the one she was looking for. And when she turned around and thanked me as she was leaving… Perhaps she thought that this painting would buy her some respite. What a strange relationship they must have had, for her not to leave him, in spite of the almost certain fact that she must have known at least a few of his secrets.
I find that I am not really worried about any possible visits from the police. After all, I really have nothing to hide, not that I am likely to tell them everything, unless it becomes necessary.
I have been back for a week now. As much as I really enjoyed the peace of staying with Grae and his family, I had a strong feeling that if I did not return to my home soon, I would never be able to. Not so much the actual place, but to the sanctuary I had created there, in mind as much as in matter. Though it may at times have been a place I sought in order to escape the pressure of making decisions, its good effects should not be completely disregarded just because my main use of it was once to do that. It is not just about running. It is about creating a platform where one can sort out one’s thoughts, and from which one can get ready to deal with whatever life has in store. Perhaps my home will even feel safer and better now.
I asked Grae to return to my home with me, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought of someone else’s presence there, and unnerved by not knowing what sort of reaction I would have when I saw that place again. He confessed to me that he had been to my home, while I had been staying at his, to ensure that it was safe, and had found no additional traces of any of them having been there. He was obviously unsure of how I would react to this, but I was only grateful for his great concern.
Coming home was not so frightful as I might have feared. After only a moment of hesitation I was able to open the door. I was glad to see my creatures in the great hall, whispering hello to them as I passed by. My room looked exactly how I had left it, except now I saw it by daylight, making the scene appear both more calming, but also more unsettling because of its normality. The bed was messy, a closer look revealing traces of the intruder, a golden strand or two amongst the ruffled bedding. I took the decision to quickly dispel any thoughts about ownership, claiming it all as mine, as it always had been, by discarding the old sheets. I let my eyes travel over my few belongings, over the walls, the stairs, the windows. Affirming that it was all mine. Afterwards, I asked Grae to go to the roof with me. I went to the edge, looking down at that spot. Where the blood had been, where the phantom of me had once ended its days. I imagined the situation up here that night, when I had been on the bed downstairs, unable to move. In the dark, he would have had no way of seeing the fire escape. Did he fall or was he pushed? Perhaps he is lying out there in the water, though I do not think a person should be able to crawl away after such a fall. He could surely not have survived it, and yet he was not there. Perhaps a friend had been waiting for him down there in the dark, the anxious-looking girl or someone else. Someone who carried his body away. Even though I would perhaps in some unpalatable way have appreciated the closure and knowledge of safety derived from seeing his body, I am also strangely grateful that I did not have to deal with disposing of it. These almost practical observations aside, I have a strange sense, almost a hope, that by falling from my roof he in a way took my place. Perhaps I do not have to have those thoughts anymore.
I was glad to share the experience of standing up there on the roof again with Grae. Somehow it seemed that the view had changed in some indefinable way. Grae said that perhaps it was time to look up. And he is right. A few nights ago, as I was up on the roof, smoking and looking at the stars through the clouds, I was for a moment entirely convinced that someone was up there with me. To such an extent that I almost turned around and looked. But I did not. I know that no one would have looked back at me through the dark. I chose to look upwards instead.