Snow and condensation

Gradual habituation is definitely a hard task. I've given up my life to exposure. It seems my sallow flesh is revelling in the momentary coup d'etat of anxiety. I've sat through an attack. I've made it through an attack! Although, the ebbing away of incessant fear has had another more consequential implication; I am rapidly drifting away from friends. My old feelings of pandering to the emotional fall-outs of friendships has diminished. My gradual emancipation has left me reeling at the thought of falling victim to anymore emotional sycophancy - "But he-he-he-told her..." - endless in its monotony. I can no longer pretend to cower at the prospect of independence and the freedom to assemble my life. My hope is that there can still be a means of understanding in close friendships. Jealousy and grovelling doesn't sit well with me; especially when things have expired beyond any poignant capacity.

My stomach feels nauseous and my head is throbbing, but I do feel the strength to continue past this point. Let it snow.

What do you want to be?

These same questions have been thrust at me many times in the past couple of weeks: What do I want to be? What do I want to do? I thought I didn't know, or rather I'd like to have not known. It seems that empty, transient feeling of anxiety seemed to still paralyse my being into some belligerent catatonic state. Pray, no more! I'm done, honest-to-god! I've had to scream out my passions, and not just the superficial. By no means am I there, but I know what I must say - I WANT TO BE A WRITER. I WANT TO BE FREE. It's hard. I have already diverted from the narrative of my peers, by withdrawing from my degree course and releasing dreams of escape. I've rebelled, in the most passive way possible. Bravery is not the word, but neither is cowardice. I'm gaining the ability to hold posession of self. I had to recapture who I was, in order to determine who I may become. All the congratulations have faded and I'm aware of the scrutiny I will now be under; a what-the-hell-does-she-think-she's-doing? I'm not wrong, but my mistakes do seem to follow a peculiar timeline. There is no more time to be lost, only time to expose myself to the frivolity of life.