Before...

I sit and stare into space. The radio plays in the background. I’ve reached saturation point, where the words on the page in front of me mean nothing. The rain runs down the window causing small splashes on the sill. Everything is grey, dull, depressing. It suits my mood.

I wonder again why I’m doing this, why I’m putting myself through this stress, and I don’t really have an answer. It seemed like a good idea a year ago, when I’d just finished a job and thought I had the time.

I worry that whatever question I get on Romantic poetry I won’t be able to answer it*, I hope that the question on the Realist novel can be answered on Great Expectations. The only bit I’m not worried about is the Shakespeare***.

I should go and do something else, really, as sitting here isn’t productive. I can feel the nerves, fluttering, I’m unable to settle. My mind is like a butterfly, flitting about thinking of everything and nothing. This feels like the longest morning I’ve experienced for a very long time. The time seems to stretch out. I watch the vehicles going up and down the street. It’s surprisingly busy for a cul de sac.

At least by evening it will all be over.

*I wasn’t wrong there then, but I had to have a go!
**Thankfully it could be
***Turns out maybe I should have been – As You Like It is a lovely play, and they had to go and choose an uninteresting bit