The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

'Ash Wednesday' (T.S. Eliot) is my favourite poem.
And it always makes me hope. But right now I am worried in my hope. I refuse to despair but I would be a fool not to see how far down I've fallen. I can barely perform the basics. I am trying to do uni work and concentrating is almost impossible - I can't even finish a short story (studying English Lit). Poetry makes sense more easily than anything else but my brain draws connections that are too far-fetched and 'sees' things that are not really there. I have work in the morning as an advisor, helping people with their essays - grammar, structure etc - and I have no idea how I'm going to do that. I have already started falling behind in everything and I miss my life. I want it back!! And I'm troubled that this want alone isn't enough for me to get it back. And I'm so tired that I almost wish I didn't want it back because it would be easier, I could fool myself I don't care and stop hurting more because I try and try and I just can't do.

My mum is coming tomorrow and I see the pdoc on Tuesday next week. But I think I'll ring tomorrow to see if I can see her sooner. It's not so much that I can't bear the emptiness, there are enough harmless drugs to keep one comfortably numb and enough tv shows that will do just the same, but all this time that I'm trapped in here, time is passing and I feel I'm dead to all that matters to the healthy me. How late is it going to be when I wake? Will I have the strength to rebuild? I have to believe I will...

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.