I can't think of anything to write lately. What little mental energy I have, is being sucked up into essay writing and forcing myself to read Just One More Chapter of the Iliad.
I think, honestly I wanted to take a Classics paper because it sounded smart and intimidating.
And then maybe people would think that I was smart and if not intimidating maybe, noticeable.
I've developed a mouse complex.
Really I could have taken another English Literature paper, and enjoyed it. But now I have paid a ridiculous amount of money, and it's too late to withdraw and I just have to keep going.
I found an old notebook of mine yesterday, and spent a while trying to decipher my handwriting. When I wrote in it I was very, very sad. And reading it, I felt strange. Feeling the memory of a hurt, was like trying to negotiate a ghost limb.
I went through and wrote myself notes in the margins.
Dear Beth, it stops hurting.
Dear Beth, there's a lot of love in your life now.
Dear Beth, it gets better.