"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth."

January 27th. After a month of avoiding English class, I finally returned. The anxiety I felt was so overwhelming. I couldn't sit in my chair. I couldn't breathe properly. There were a lot of things wrong with me. The thought of failing this class did not help, so I tried to scribble a bunch of BS as distraction.

I could not be distracted.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. HOW DO I FEEL RIGHT NOW? I GUESS IT'S ASHAMED. I DON'T GET WORK DONE. I AM NOT ENGAGED IN CLASS, BUT MOST OF ALL, I CANNOT SIT DOWN
AND
JUST
WRITE.



IRONIC THOUGH.



ISN'T THAT WHAT I JUST DID?



BUT EITHER WAY, MR. GURALIUK IS TALKING AND I AM LOST. NOT LOST IN HIS WORDS ABOUT WORK I HAVE NOT DONE (WELL YES, I GUESS) BUT MORE LOST IN MY OWN PATHETIC HOPELESSNESS. I'D LIKE TO SAY THAT IT'S A DEEP AND MEANINGFUL HOPELESSNESS, BUT IT IS SO SHALLOW. HOW COME I CANNOT SEEM TO REEL MYSELF OUT? HOW COME I CAN'T USE THE STRENGTH AND BELIEF PEOPLE HAVE IN ME, TO PUSH ME? DON'T I CARE? WHY AM I IMAGINING MYSELF WALKING OUT OF THIS CLASSROOM RIGHT NOW? WHY CAN'T I FACE HIM OR ANYONE ELSE IN THIS CLASS? BEATS ME.



FALSE. IT HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH ME AND I CANNOT ADMIT IT TO MYSELF. HOW LOW DO I FEEL RIGHT NOW?



WHY CAN'T I JUST ACCEPT THAT THIS IS ALL MY FAULT? WHY CAN'T I JUST ACCEPT THAT THIS IS ONE SCREW UP THAT CAN'T BE FIXED?



HOW TEMPTED AM I TO WRITE 'BUT IT CAN BE FIXED'. I GUESS I'M JUST STUCK IN THE SHALLOW END."

I think that was the first time since grade 9 that I've written for myself and to myself. I remember my English teacher in grade 8 and 9, Ms. Mah. Before every class, she'd make us write a journal entry. These entries made me discover so many things about myself, so many thoughts, feelings and ideas I never knew I had. These journals made me admit things I could never admit to anyone in the world, and no matter how much they relieved me and provided an escape for my bottled up emotions, they terrified me. I never wanted to feel the things I felt when I wrote, but without these journals, I would have never discovered my love for writing. Ms. Mah never read my fat pink notebook, but she told me all the things I would be capable of if I continued to venture beyond my limits.We emailed often, and she'd always give me insight on my personal work. She is the reason I cannot stand the sight of  "The reason why...". She is the reason I will never mistake "affect" for "effect". She nurtured any passion I had towards writing. Throughout those two years, she became one of the few people that made me realize what self-worth was. When she left Gladstone without a word, nobody really understood how heartbroken I was. 

That was three years ago. A week from today, at 5 in the morning, she crossed my mind and I emailed her. I wrote about how lately I've been struggling with school and how much I missed her. I thanked her for everything, from fostering my passion for writing to the bagels that she brought every class. It didn't even matter if she replied; I didn't think she even used that email anymore. It was just nice to write without forcing it. 

She replied 4 hours later.

"... writing is like a relationship. There are times when everything is good, and you are in love with it and it with you. Then there are times when you feel betrayed and wonder if it's the right thing for you. A few years ago I had to take a break from writing. I'd felt we'd gotten stuck in a rut, so I stopped. I did other things that I loved, like climbing and snowboarding, but I knew something was still missing. I got in touch with one of my mentors and she told me it was normal. This is why I'm sharing this with you. When I went back to writing, I took a different approach. I stopped writing for everyone else (magazines, newspapers, work) and wrote for me."

What has this got to do with this assignment? Nothing, really. Journals are meant for (self-) discovery, are they not? 

I've never been a Kurtz, but I have been a Marlow. I have peered over the edge and I've been tempted to jump into my very own Darkness. I can say that I, like Marlow, have ventured to a dark place of the earth.

And I feel that here, I must conclude this journal before I ever get the chance to jump, and find what it is like to be a Kurtz. 

Although I could never really tell you the true meanings of The Hollow Men and Heart of Darkness, I feel enlightened in the utmost of ways, even in this dim room of understanding. 

This is the way my journal ends,

Not with a bang, but a whimper.