Nobody feels like an adult... It's the world's dirty secret.

Two pieces down and two to go. 1000 words, 2000 words. Now 3000 and 5000. Counting the days until it's over. Sweating in dreamless sleeps of days approaching faster and faster until I can't keep stalling like this anymore.
Tutorial Friday - 0 work. Weeks wasted watching football, drinking wine and picking sofa fabrics. A tiny paintbrush in hand, filling in gaps of half an inch. Over and over in the back of my mind - covered in cobwebs and dusty from forgotten dates. And then all of a sudden Easter skies were dulled and everything was grey and still. 

I'm catching my breath as we speak. 

Fast fingers work words so quickly my mind can't keep up. I'm drowning in a sea of subordinates, of subheadings and strategies. Technological nightmares and faking my own surveys. I'm sure everyone did this. I'm sure they did. Right?

I can feel it before bed, lurking around my feet like dirty water. I'm barefoot, and stale concrete leaves my veins cold and aching. Only 12 days.

Will the air taste sweeter when I'm finished.
Will skies look bluer and sheets feel softer.
Will the water I drink feel cold against the back of my throat, right down - fiery almost - into the pits of my stomach?

Will I swim with greater conviction?
Take deep breaths and sweat heavy evenings in the sauna?
Plan days with hurried adrenaline, watching the fat sun sit low in the morning sky.
Will I chew my food like I haven't in such a long time - savoring the taste, the herbs, the salt.

Or will my heart continue to pump the same anxious beats.
My mind race at night and at 3am will I wake to a hurricane of dreams, having been thrown to the ground with a cruel thud?

I'm scared for something that I can control.
But I can't, and that's kind of the irony.
I can sit up all night and write 5000 words.
But they will mean nothing - drunken slurs of sentences, strung together with incomprehensible facts. 
12 days. 
Just 12 days. 


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