I feel as if there’s nothing to write about…but I know that’s not true. there’s always something to write about. I spilled to ******** and Mrs M. Mrs M is taking me to dinner Friday. I’m hella nervous about it, considering the culture and all. This whole thing makes me nervous. Sometimes I feel like I’m so inspired. Other times I just feel like I’m slowly fading. It’s like an interconnected web of a person slowly collapsing on itself. I know I’m still avoiding it. I’m afraid to confront and face the truth. I plan to see **** tomorrow. It feels strange. My chest feels confusion and apprehension. I think I’m afraid of stepping back in.