I've just finished re-reading 1602, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.
Yesterday I re-read the first Books of Magic graphic novel.
Three days ago I saw one of the First in my sleep. His back was turned and he was walking away. "Talk to me" I pleaded. "I'm busy now" he replied and left.
A week ago I found out about a health problem I have. Not very serious. Not simple either.
Two weeks ago I finished another short story.
Three months ago in my sleep I talked to the one who tries to destroy me in any and every way possible. I hugged and told her, "You can still stop it. You can ask for forgiveness". She pushed me away, furious. "I won't!" she said.
Six months ago I started talking with someone who will probably be important for my future in a foreign country. She is important to me already.
Two and a half years ago I found out who you are. Are you?
Three years ago I accidentally linked with a photo and discovered that someone, an eighteen year old someone had been murdered and his parents still expect him to return home. I cried so much that night I though I would die.
Three and a half years ago I tried to help the one who had killed me in the past. I accidentally connected to the Source. Have not been able to disconnect ever since.
Almost four years ago my father died.
Six and a half years ago I broke up with the last relationship I had.
Eleven years ago I was in love.
Eleven and a half years ago I came back to Greece from United Kingdom.
Thirteen and a half years ago I left for United Kingdom for my studies.
Fifteen years ago I was still drawing. Not anymore.
Sixteen years ago my father left home.
Sixteen and a half years ago I fell in love for the first time in my life.
Nineteen years ago my mother was still hitting me.
Thirty years ago I was victimized.
Thirty three and a half years ago I was born.
How come I feel one hundred and fifty years tired?
Is it over yet?