It's been hard.

I'd like to blog more, but my eyes are drooping.

Somehow I'd never imagined Journalism to be like this, I guess I just thought I'd get to write about stuff I am interested in (seeing that I am interested in almost everything) yet somehow, as the week draws to an end, I look forward to my off days.

I have no idea why.

And as I meander my way through my stories without sense or focus, I find myself losing what I thought would be the only thing keeping me going.

I lost my love.

I lost something that I used to enjoy.

I've lost that spark I used to feel everytime I go tippity tappity on the keyboards and watch the little black letters form words that form emotion and meaning.

I lost my sense of direction and purpose and I can write, oh I know I can.

I can write well, after all, its about the ONLY thing I have going for me. But now every word I type seems unnatural to me. It's just not me. It isn't what I am capable of. Its stiff, and boring and amatuer-ish, and I am no amatuer. Expert no, but neither a total green shoot. I am not an amateur two-bit writer.

I can write better than what I am writing now. I hate how I feel stifled for some reason.

I get a sense I've pissed off certain people.

I am no longer me. I don't know this person working here. I am not who I usually am. I am this scaredy chicken with a mouth full of gold. Nothing works.

Nothing I do works. I can't deal with people. I don't know how to. I have no idea where to begin.

I don't know what I can do. Why doesn't being polite work anymore?? Why don't people respond to good ol' manners anymore? Or am I doing something seriously offensive and I don't know it??

In the end, I get an ominous feeling that my stint in IA will be one I'd rather block out, because Whales is hiding in there somewhere, hidden by May Wan. And Whales isn't going to be happy at all.