"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