It's funny...

...how you can be in world full of almost 7, 000,000,000 people

...in a country of 51,000,000

...attend a university of 14,000

...be in a flat with 10 other people lounging in their rooms...

...and all cos of one person, you feel so alone.

Crisis.

I'm almost half way through the university semester now and, due to the law of sods, all my assignments and deadlines have been neatly compressed in the latter half of the term. So, as a gift, my mind has churned out a plethora of persistent niggles to make it just that little bit harder to concentrate. Currently, my mind is contemplating the very unlikely possibility that I win the lottery this weekend and have a few million to bulk out my pocket.

Then, of course, this leads onto fueling my need for travel.

Such as swimming with dolphins in Florida...

...a romantic weekend in Paris (sans dancer)...

...lounging on an Australian beach...

...or just walking along an exquisite island....

(she says, drooling onto the computer keyboard...)

All this does call into question my career choice. Obviously, becoming a writer isn't an easy task. Firstly, many harbour the same ambition. How is it possible for one to know if their work is good enough to even reach the kind of platform you dream of? Secondly, I am quite a lackluster person unless I have several creative pieces to work on, as my mind drifts easily. Therefore, freelance writing would be perfect, although is it likely to give me the financial stability to be able to jet off to some of the places I dream of? And lastly, the industry is quite a cut throat business; it's hard to get work experience, to get published, to get your foot in the door. It's hard to keep your mind on your dreams when you get knocked back. All of this just highlights the age old problem of actualising your dreams. I find it hard to wait when such impulses overwhelm me, but in order for your goals to be achieved, waiting and working away beneath the surface is often the only way forward.

Alas! I have started sessions of C.B.T. this week in Norwich, which I hope to be able to gain a different perspective on life. It seems my fear of death could suggest a love of life - but then I waste that life I have by just sleeping with depression! (note: an abstract entity, rather than an awkwardly named human.) I suppose I am quite an insular person. My insecurities mean I don't like to get too involved with friends or people I meet, in case they think my 'crankiness' drains life away from them. So I'm constantly in a cycle of: "I feel awful, and need to talk, but don't want to make anyone think I'm miserable". Sadly, my boyfriend often gets the brunt of all my worries and insecurities, which, as I've learnt in the past, only goes to show just how comfortable I feel with him. I suppose I craved structure during my Gap Year, and now I have it, I desire the mobility of travel and new experiences. I just have the mobility of the hips of an elderly woman right now.