Busy busy busy, back at uni, so many assignments I don't know how I'll get them all done, I've got everything from Xenophon's constitution of Sparta to the autobiography of Frederick Douglass (An american Slave) going round my head.

I feel like I'm learning exponentially, I'm just not sure my brain can keep up with it. Sometimes I think I'm in a time bubble, everything seems static, my life moving so fast and at the same time, no-where at all.

It's a year this month, me and him I mean, so much has changed since this time last year, so very much I know it can never be the same again. Mostly I think it's in a good way, but some things I think I may grow to miss.

Empty empty words. Why am I writing all this? None of it means anything, none of it says anything.

I wish I could write like I used to; sometimes I think Uni sucked all the expression out of me.

The way is shut...it was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut...

Yesterday I went to the Paths of the Dead, and truly it felt as if the men of Dunharrow were coming out to greet me, the whispers filled my mind until I could think of little else and so clearly it resembled what was in my head..

Night Revellers

Interesting, I thought I had lost the ability or thought to write poetry, it's been over six months. But tonight, listening to the drunken passerby's beneath my window even in the midst of deep winter, I was inspired; by what, I'm not quite sure, I guess that's up to you to derive what meaning you wish.

The drunken shouts of weary passerby’s

Float across the window, piercing my rest

The night so vibrant with their cheerless cries

Their clothes now sodden from their drunken zest

I watch them far above as from the street-

I see them stumbling, miseries confessed

As floating to my ears they should just meet

and yet I cannot heed their garbled tongue

shackled as I am by deepening sleep

Into the farther reaches, I am hard flung

into the deepest dreams of ecstasy and delight

Into the regions of the endless night