This paragraph is an anachronism; I just finished writing this journal entry and wanted to come back and tell you what to expect. Its really an inexcusably irrelevant (to you) mumble of a monologue about a large number of miscellaneous things caused by stress, jealousy, extreme nervousness and an overactive mind. Many people claim to have overactive minds but wait until you reach the bottom before you allow them that status.

Do you know, this time tomorrow I'll be a different person but equally fallible. how unfair. This time in two days I'll be utterly dog-tired and more than a little jealous. how tiresome. This time in three days I don't know where I'll be. how frightening.

The world makes a funny noise when its concentrating, which is always. Trees see more than they say. Pag had her appendix taken out on Saturday; much misfortune has come as a result; her birthday is on Thursday; how awful.

Thursday. Love them. Daffodils, the lot of them. They're so consistently extreme, morris or no.

You know, maybe I'm drowning and haven't noticed yet. I wouldn't notice, you know. Blind as a bat. Maybe I'm lying and haven't noticed yet. Or maybe nothing. Maybe this is all there is to it and the universe has been lying to me rather badly.

What'll happen, in the future? I want to know now, but be able to stay here in the present. I want to know what will happen to us, me and the people I know. I want to know where I'll live and who I'll marry and what I'll want. I want to know what Joanna Newsom's next album will be like (I'm awfully impatient like that).

I woke up this morning to discover a covey of strange flowers in my eyelids, but by the time I'd properly woken, they'd dissolved like fairy floss does in your mouth. I crawled down the infinite and very unyielding ladder to the floor and donned some clothes. I remembered everything I had to bring with me but forgot what it was that was making me so unhappy.

I find myself skipping from thing to thing like a delighted child in a patch of shallow splashy puddles. skirting the edges of the dry despairing important things. if I say what they are it'll make them real, sort of, and I expect I'm just being mentally melodramatic anyway.

I'm not good with keys, myself. I turn them in the wrong direction and once just broke one apart. I wasn't even trying, it just split into two like cold butter.

When something good happens to you, straight afterwards write as detailed and perfect and accurate a report of it as you can. It's fun, it's good practice for your brain, it'll make it easier to relive in the future, it'll remind you if you forget anything and it'll make you less likely to forget anything because recounting stuff traces the neural pathways that it creates, making them stronger and more durable. my mother has a masters in neuropsych, she explains things like that, thats where I get it from.

Raspberries are out of season, dammit, and I've been craving them for weeks to no avail. Too expensive, too damnably expensive. I'm awfully thirsty too - present physical situation aside, liquid is a good thing. Food and drink are so deeply connected with the brain and so on.

Thats all thats real, you know. The brain. Your feelings, personal feelings, not just physical sensations, are all that exist, for you. Theres no such thing as morals - if something is going to make you feel bad, immoral, for doing it, you don't do it - if not for regret and pity, we wouldn't bother with any of that. we'd all be dead, I expect.

my fingertips really hurting and taste like salty blood but they're not bleeding or really cut. I just scraped them on a rough thing this morning. I wasn't being sensible at all and I guess I got what I had coming to me. which is a bit sad.

I sometimes wonder what I'd have to do to make someone hate me. I sometimes wonder what they'd do to make me hate them. I often wonder what would happen if I or someone else died, I often wonder what would happen if I or more often someone else had something of a personality change - how horrible they could be, if they wanted, what would happen if they were. I suppose its a mental firewall to safeguard me - as in, if that happened, no matter how horrible they were I'd be protected by having already analysed the situation. Not a conscious decision I assure you.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I had some sort of magical power - flight, invisibility, whatever. 'silly' maybe, but thats a ridiculous, stupid, relative term, used by monotonous and narrow-minded fools to express something they are too blockheaded to articulate. I'm rather proud of myself for not swearing there.

if I were an animal I'd be a pine marten. flicking-fluffy-tailed and fiercely bright-eyed. if I were a tree, I'd be a peppercorn tree. smirking, smiling, spicy great curly bark and feathery-leaves. if I were a flower, I'd be - well I can't even answer because I'm so biased. but I adore them. if I were a bird I'd be a welcome swallow. dive and splashing on the surface of the cold air. if I were a fish I'd be a seahorse, chivalrous and skeletal and weirdly beautiful.

I think visually. almost everything I think is in sight - diagrams or more often fantastic images. More often than not my poetry is just me describing rather literally what I'm seeing. But I have another advantage there, which is a sort of automatic search which assists with alliteration and finding pleasant sounds for the words. It just pops up. How lovely. Admittedly I have been known to use rhyming dictionaries and things, because it saves me the trouble of having to go through the alphabet and all that crap, and expands my vocabulary most satisfyingly.

There I go - right here where I'm typing now, this line, I almost started saying something actually important thats actually been on my mind but stopped myself because to write it would be such a stupid and redundant and stupid (that's a meme, my control of language isn't that bad, I swear) thing to do. ughggggg. that was the sound of me almost saying something again.

names are not important. they're not. I'm sorry, romantic people - believe me, I number firmly amongst you - does that make sense? - but names are utterly meaningless. no matter what you think of a name, things will inevitably and totally eclipse their own names. it doesn't matter what something is called. it really doesn't.

well, thats all. if you just read all that, congratulations. you're awesome. leave a comment with something I can write about in my next poem, or something. or I'll just be inspired by you. or what'll more likely happen, is nothing, and I will, as ever, be on my own.