Last night at approximately 3.34am I had a sudden urge to write in my journal. It had been a good 19 months since I had written anything in it (let alone touch it) but I just felt so utterly compelled to get out of my bed's pocket of warmth to find a pen. I realised how hard it was to write in semi-darkness and on my pillow as some form of table when the drops of ink couldn't match the pace of my thoughts. It's like trying to make a water bed stay still when everyone wants a fucking shot at trying it out.
Anyway, I slept at 4am with a sore neck, tired arm and without a medium-sized weight on my chest. Phew.
It's now 7.26pm and I'm supposed to be reading Just and Unjust Wars by Walzer but I can't seem to even open it. I've just been dawdling around for the past hour or two whilst I silently worry over a growing to-do list. What a worry wart I am. So, I thought I'd make a blog (another) to express this strange emotion that's slowly festering me.. I swear I will be swallowed whole by the misery that I, and only I, have put myself in.
I'm the red kite, my name is Mi (well, I prefer to be called that) and I plan to be more honest.