today was one of the saddest in a time.

Today was one of the saddest days in a long time. A cold, blunt, metallic kind of sadness. I barely left my own head, but I left the flat for several hours. I walked around London - spaced-out like a Sophia Coppola film, too weary to feel any emotion and too bitter to feel sorry for myself. There was only the cold, pushing from inside my legs, through my thick woollen tights and skin tight jeans, and no colour to my introspection. 

Sometimes, on days like these, I find myself making sensible decisions as a way of acting out. I eat my vegetables and go for walks, and when I still feel crap, I can feel self-righteous about it. Its like taking the morale high ground in an argument, grimly satisfied by knowing that I have followed the therapists advice and stubbornly resisted feeling any better. 

Writing offers me a small, placid type of solace. Calculating sentences is distracting enough to help. I'm not sure I could write a story like this, or at least, I couldn't start, and writing about anything seems impossible - I can't find the passion for conversation or opinion. So of course, against the backdrop of cold, guilt makes itself known. I feel like I'm wasting my solitude, like I should be creating something better. But diary entries have to suffice - the only truth I can write is the one at the forefront of my brain. And not writing, as on option, is even more terrifying. 

The hours stretch on like this. There's no one here to break them.