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Figured it out. Or more guided in to reality.

Life revolves around key moments. These determine us. Mold us. Shape us in to the beings we are today. I believe that many stories are written in our lifetimes, and as life progresses each story layers, picks up speed carrying the story before it. They evolve in to masses. Heavy force fields. Miniature suns. Our life choices become planets. Orbiting. Paths dictated by the strength of sun.

Personal example:
Book 1: Childhood,
Sun: Divorce
(Fear. Abandonment. Loss. Jealousy. Shy. Reliant imagination)

Book 2: Teenager
Sun: Family fear. Body discomfort.
(Crying. Shouting. Mirrors. Dialing tone in hand. Swimming costume. Shame. Don't touch her)

Book 3: Youth
Sun: Love found & lost
(Entwined lives. Happy. Joy. Roundhay Park hill. Suffocating. Dependent. Families)


So absorbed in this last story, a bid to understand it involved tracing each line back to the first chapter, the initial paragraph - the very scene it opened on. Until I lived in it. Literally in it. And yet blissfully unaware until today; triggered by one full orbit.

Chapter 1: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Drink. Blue skies. Brown corduroy. Grass. Orange youth hostel walls. Apple. Smiles. Black rabbits. Regents Park. Coach station. Hold. Home.

Did I think that by living near Kings Cross, by working in Kings Cross that I could somehow erase it...build new memories to papier mache over it smothering it in to distant recollection? Or was the attempt to re-live it. Re-live it over and over again. Punishing myself. Do I blame myself? Is it some sick means to remind myself of love lost, errors made, regret untrue?

Last Chapter: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Office. Blueberries. Old flames. Camden. Home. New flames. Friends. Explore. Regents Park. Dog. Him. Birthday book:'The Time Traveller's Wife'. Realisation. Home.

New book.
Chapter 1: