Somehow, it felt like I was living my life from the outside in. I picked up objects that had long been mine – clothes, make-up, books – and at times it was as if they did not belong to me but were a stranger’s. I looked at the white pot with the tiny feet, out of which a bonsai had once grown, and for a brief moment despised it. I looked at the little blue and white bowls in our kitchen. We ate regularly out of these bowls. They were exactly the same as the ones
