Morbid musings.

Yesterday got the strangest feeling. A 'smell' within, not originating from outside or emanating from another part of my body (thank heavens!) but 'inside the nose'. At first I didn't know why I put a morbid interpretation on it, namely that it was somehow a premonition of my imminent demise. I have no particular reason to think I'm about to keel over - my health is good, very good for my age, in fact. But the thought was there throughout the night. Even had the idea that I may not wake up this morning. My greatest concern at present is not in actually dying but, as I probably wouldn't be missed for at least a couple of weeks, making sure that the back window is open so my cats can get out. Then this morning I realised that what might have brought these morbid thoughts about is the books I'm currently reading - 'The Tibetan Book of the Dead', which I'm reading in slow piecemeal fashon at about one page per day - and also Sebastian Faulks' excellent 'The Fatal Englishman' - a one volume biography of, actually, 3 semi-famous men who died relatively young earlier last century, 2 of them gay who were, incidentally, also the 2 of them who committed suicide. Not that I have suicidal thoughts myself - never have, apart from the fleeting notion that surely everyone now and then gets, but it's never been serious. So that's probably the reason for thoughts running along those lines. But nevertheless the strange internal 'smell' is still here even now - together with a vaguely-defined but oddly real sense of unease and foreboding. Going out this afternoon to the cinema. Must take special care when crossing the road!