I don't regret writing the essays, exactly, but the subjects are so difficult for me that even thinking about them makes me dizzy.
Words are like pieces of a puzzle to me. I don't know that I have any concrete control over them, but it is only as I locate and rearrange my words that I begin to find my own meaning. Too few and I am blank, too many and I am furiously scribbling in margins already filled. Balance and I are either unacquainted or jolly well pissed off with one another.
I really don't want to muse on life and bewilderment right now, but this is all I can find. I wish I could feel within myself that everything will be fine.
It has never been fine. It will be fine, but it has never been fine.