Okay, okay, I'm uber stressed. I can't start the essays due next week and I've procrastinated for too many days and diaryland refuses to open a window for me to write this in and I have an appointment with counsellor-man tomorrow and I don't want one, and I did the lamest of lame things earlier, I wrote fanfiction, I am the lamest of the lame.

And you know in a way it felt good, I haven't written fiction in years, and it's something I have a slight propensity for but I'm not good enough at it for it to mean anything.

But mainly now I feel bad, it's a stress-rush, it rushes over every surface and taints everything and makes it all wrong.

There are no markers and these words keep coming back to me - I'm sunk I'm sunk I'm sunk. I've always looked for something to latch on to, something to carry me through the weather, but I'm too heavy. I'm sunk. I'm picky and so are they and I'm sunk.

Mmmm, quality babs-babble, you couldn't get better if you drugged me.

I'm at home and this place used to be the sanctuary but now it's the prison, why is there always a prison, it's like I don't know how to exist outside a cage, longtime jailbird.

I fall out of songs and out of movies and out of tv shows and out of books and out of plays and out of art but I keep trying to put myself back in them, searching for that moment where they hold me before the branches break and the cradle falls.

Because reality wasn't what I thought it would be. Sleeping beauty woke up to realise she was ugly and had been hallucinating, or so she tells herself. This isn't where I expected to find myself and in truth I haven't.

Smells. Multidimensional personas. Plot lines that never conclude, just run along side life. Lines that were supposed to work but didn't. Characters that never apparated. Roles I'm coerced into playing. I didn't ask for this, nobody told me to expect this, whatever happened to a sensible denouement?

No one is flat enough to prop me up, too many crevices I end up falling into.

Twists and turns occur, it's true, but I no longer affect where it goes. I thought I was the one writing this but the pen moves against my will. Was it ever me? Or was I too busy playing hide-and-seek, when appropriate forces caught my attention?

I search for something real in reality, something simple, something right. But they are all susceptible to falsehood, except for the already intrinsically flawed. Such is my dilemma, such is my psychobabble.

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