Judge-Tempest

I get cold feet a lot. The literal kind, the ones that make you wince when they brush your leg in the night, stop you slipping off to sleep, distract when you wear thin socks. That kind. I've had them for a while, I'm almost used to them. Thing is, I never used to, not before January. I've written this before. I laid it all out over two pages, all mysterious and slow and perfect. I wrote something that followed perfectly the thoughts behind me doing something that made no sense, something stupid I've regretted on and off since. I had it all written out, but I never typed it up. I filed it at the back of my folder, behind all my Physics notes

To say I love writing would be wrong. I like writing, sure, but what I like better is not writing. Taking paper and pen, or computer and keyboard, and simply not writing. There's a certain beauty in a blank page, in the knowledge that I can create something. I can do anything with a sheet of paper, and that is precisely why I almost always do nothing. You see, the moment I put a word down, even a single letter, I feel like I'm destroying something. Whatever I write, however skilled I become, the things I write are dwarfed by what I haven't written. Writing is not an exercise in choosing words, but rather in not choosing them. The moment I

I was in the library. Seems like I'd barely stopped hiding there for all the wrong reasons when I have to start going there for the right ones. I was there to read History. This was still a day before I'd find out the results of my January exams, so I was more worried about it than I am now. I was reading the newspapers. Of course, I didn't need Tom sitting just at the edge of my peripheral vision reading History and making notes to remind me of what I should have been doing. I read about politics. It was interesting, and made me miss the days when I didn't worry about such things. After some articles on points and leads and leaders, I read