Burying my heart along with the memory of you.
This is the beginning of the end.
Let the devastation wash over me in folds,
taking me under, never to resurface.

Emotions running mad.

"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity."
--Dickinson

"Fog everywhere"--Yes, I am busying myself with reading Bleak House for school. I don't know why I always seem to put everything off until the last minute. Now, I am stuck finishing this 770 page novel and writing two essays, all by Tuesday. I'm quite pathetic really, but even more so in another sense.

The weather outside is--no pun intended--frightful. It's cold, wet, dreary--which is why I find it so easy to sit comfortably on my couch, cocoa in hand, and read this novel, which is also, in a sense, dreary. I am hoping that by Spring break, I will be able to find more time to read more enjoyably upbeat things. I also want to work on some art--possibly some paintings, collages, and then, of course, some short stories, poems, and that sort of thing. By then, I hope to be working toward getting some things published in literary magazines and what not. I am beginning to feel inspired again, and I'm exactly sure what is the cause of that.

For months, I've been feeling quite dead inside. Some people know the cause, and to the others, well, I don't really feel like explaining. Let's just say, love is a deadly drug, and I was an addict for a very long time.

Anyway, I'd rather not drone on and on again about how boring, dreary, or depressing my life is, but rather, take this opportunity to live again. And, soon, I'm sure I'll be writing in this journal every day.

"We are such things as dreams are made on."--The Tempest