It seems every other school in the country has graced its students with their final grades; no such luck with Smith.

I don't even know why I care.

It's barely January and I'm tired, tired, tired of winter. There has not been nearly enough snow to justify the cold and the sad bare trees and the evergrey sky. My mind dwells in summer still, in the green, in the warm air, in the dazzling skies. I had the loveliest summer and some part of me mourns its passing still, the part that insinuates fragments of it into dreams that only leave me empty in the morning.

I am tired of saying it already but god, do I miss my house. I knew I would, yes, knew it for months. But the reality is everything I'd feared and worse. I can't get used to the closeness of everything, the feeling that every move I make can be seen. It's what I hate about school - the clustered living, always feeling on display - but Home was my refuge from that. No more.

I suspect I have a strange, but deep rooted, brand of claustrophobia.

I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself, but it's a habit I can't seem to shake. I'm tired of feeling flawed. I tell myself I don't want much, that my longings are simple, and I write and I write and I'm tired of writing about it. I am tired of my cynicism, my pessimism, my self-absorption, those trademarks of any self-respecting depressive. I am tired of feeling like these are things I could change about myself but never managing any change beyond the superficial. I am tired of so many things, and I'm beginning to believe I'm stuck with them all, because I'm the one person I can never get away from.

I keep wanting to wait to write when I have something pleasant to write about. It, clearly, is not happening.