And what deaths am I talking about? Let us see… It is very likely I died beheaded on November 23rd, 1210, in Termes. And I have good reasons to think that in the same month in 1942, I died as a Czech nurse in France, and in the end of 19th century, as Coreanne, in Norway. However, it is not death itself what affects me. All these deaths have something in common: besides dying, occurred the separation from someone I love more than anyone else. In my public writings, I use to call him H. In my Cathar life he was my firstborn; in my life during the Second World War, my German boyfriend; and in the life in Cardiff, my Norwegian sailor. No less no more.
And then November 2018 arrives, and I find myself bringing one of my fiction novels to an end, which in reality is the second part of a book I started writing at thirteen years old. And although I am incapable of looking very far in the future, and therefore I am incapable of knowing what is going to happen in my stories, I suddenly realize that if I finish the second novel as it has occurred to me, with nearly no planning, there is only one possibility for the third one: there is going to be a painful separation, involuntary on the part of the female protagonist (as in my life in Cardiff), and the man is going to be like Jan in Norway for some time: completely alone, after his daughter’s death, and after his woman’s death, learning to deal with his own grief. And for some reason, I always knew as Coreanne (or better said, as my current self remembering Coreanne’s life) that everything was fine, that it all had to happen that way, despite the fact I keep regretting that sad separation these days, despite the fact H is essentially the reason I remember past lives. Nostalgia never fades away, no matter what I do.