It's because I can no longer control whether I see it in my coffee mug or not. It's just there. I don't have to look because I know. I watch it grow behind the sunlight when I go out for 7am walks. But now it just grows closer, nestled in between the shirts I've folded together, beneath the scatch marks of my roommate's skateboard, hanging on the loose threads of my pyjamas. It's in every fucking particle I breathe, down to my lungs, pumped into my veins, right through my goddamn aorta. All these thoughts. This anxiety. Just this continuous state of unhappy and panicky and worry that I can't shake off, like some bad cold that's been permanently engraved into the skin of my bones.

I can't hold it in anymore. It drips with every step I take, bleeds through all the papers I write. It spells out its own name when I type.

It's only the beginning of 2016 and I can't fucking hold the paintbrush. I promised myself better drawings. I can't even get past a line.