Natasha Illum Berg

To me November is the month of change, crisp mornings, a few tall hours of light and the odd puffed up bird, who was tough enough, or dumb enough, to have stayed, after all the others left.

People die, or worse, they get caught up in things less important and put them aside indefinitely

Forgive me for my weakness if sometimes, on these pages, I portray myself in a better light than what is palatable. Forgive me again, for my vanity, if I paint a darker picture of myself, than what is true

No human is strong enough to not resent a little that thing or person whom she thinks put a stop to her reaching her goals

You can never feel lonely again once you stop taking the importance of your own species too seriously

From one belly to the next, none the wiser of where you have been, or where you are going, or where you have arrived to, that is how it goes

We know the parts: how it starts and how it ends. The question is how well we use the time in the middle.

Also, how brave we are at fighting and equally facing it all, when the inevitable comes towards us. Both when we step into life and when we step into death

and on this we base one of our favourite illusions: time

We had to make these things up: time, and Thursdays and Saturdays, so it didn’t just all seem so very mad and confusing on this merry-go-round, that is spinning so fast that we are never sure what or who we are