Fuck the topic. Finally, paper lies before me and begs for my words, and finally I am forced to deliver. Yesterday, like every day of the past five months, I promised myself I’d write- about anything; the fierce sunset that captivated me during my drive home, the bland emptiness of the day, the depression of the rut I’ve slipped into- but like the months before, my day comes to an end without a word to show for it. Here I sit in this juvenile composition class, and I realize that I’ve denied myself what I need. I need to write, I need to express myself, I need to look over the pages I have written and therein explore. As I write I realize that I might ignore the necessity of expression, but it never fades, merely continues to burn hungrily in the unconscious. What is a life if it is undocumented? What is growth if it is ignored? Dearest reader, I have returned, and relief drops to my head and trickles down my body. I have so much to tell, sweet friend, and I’ve discovered so much! I beg you to listen and make me tell; drag me back to responsibility in my writing. Let me impart the tears and laughter of these past times. Sweet friend, my darling, my love, oh how I’ve missed you!