I feel like my mother's death has made me realise a lot about myself. Last night at the workshop for creative writing everyone was critiquing a piece I wrote that said quite honestly that I can't bring myself to tell people how hard I find it sometimes yet I get very angry at them for not figuring it out. And afterwards, when a few people talk to me about it, I simply act all professional and put on my analytical, calm, self-assured voice. Actually I didn't feel like bursting into tears or anything at all. Yet I don't know why I can't admit that sometimes I feel like it.

I imagine too much. I dwell on things and imagine what I would say had I the chance and then when the chance comes I keep it all in.

I suppose that's why I like to write.