Had one of those conversations/arguments with father that make catching a spear with your head seem thoroughly, thoroughly pleasant.

So my spider senses are tingley, saying that I should make a dash for it. I mightn't find freedom or enlightenment or inner peace, but... the grass is greener in other places, and not just because I'm looking at it from here.

I want light, and air. I'm choking here. And the smog is so thick that most of the time I can't even see far enough in front of my face to realise this.

I started this entry last night but I got distracted and wandered off... as I was going to bed, I thought about it, and... well.

This is probably a tad too much on the melodrama side (even for me! and that's saying a lot) but I realised it's like death by a thousand small cuts.

As each one comes along I hug it to myself and quietly repeat my mantra "It's just one more cut. It's just one more cut. It's just one more cut," and so I haven't noticed that the cuts have rolled into the hundreds, haven't seen how close I'm getting to the ominous number 999.

Hello, knowledge. It's a frequent visitor but I rarely know what to do with it. Should I carry you around with me in my day to day life, or put you on a shelf and let you get dusty?

It's 34 degrees celsius in this room and that's just enough to not care either way at the moment, frankly.

More when things cool down, probably. xxx

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