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I have been writing poetry lately. Don't fear, I will not ever subject you to that, I can barely believe I am subjecting me to that; but my lecturer's talk of how we must challenge ourselves has been ringing in my ears...

Poetry is a bitch. It involves curbing my loquaciousness and being absolutely frugal.with.every.word. I can't use my usual metaphors because they are too obvious; instead I have to break links in them and smack them around until they are semi-abstract images, which in poetry seem to be far more effective.

Having spent the last few weeks dressing and undressing an incredibly minimal amount of phrases, I am not inclined to do that now.

I'm unhappy.

This week has claws like no other. Next week I will be the picture of immense happiness, mostly because this week will be gone.

But for now I'm unhappy.

But that's fine. It's a normal emotion on the spectrum of human emotions. And I'm allowed to feel it without having to go all kamikaze-pro-active on it. I'm allowed to feel unhappy without feeling guilty about it.

... Hey... I am too! I feel a little better after noticing that. Thanks brain, sometimes, you do good work.

I have a feeling this week will get worse before it gets better; it's not the now that's really inducing sadness so much as thoughts about how it will end.

I think it's going to hurt, just typing words about thoughts about it make my eyes sear in pain.

I'm terrified.

I just want it to be over, and I... I miss my mum! Oh.

Wow. That only... hit me just now.

I'm so scared.

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