Spiral.

I want to write about beautiful things, but what do I do when there is nothing beautiful to write about?

At the end of each day I feel exhausted and defeated. Albus is the only thing keeping my life on an even keel right now.

One of my professors is insane. She jumps to conclusions, changes due dates, belittles me in front of the class when I try to ask a question or defend myself. By the end of class today I had a wad of my own hair in my hand that was nearly the width of a pencil. I twirled it around my fingers for the rest of the day, enjoying the texture of it.

Pain has become a good friend of mine. Nothing big, nothing self-destructive, but small, delicious agonies - burning my tongue on a stolen fry, near-scalding showers, chewing on my fingers a little too hard, gnawing the insides of my cheeks raw. The pain keeps me a little more focused, a little more in control, or else I would certainly spiral. I never draw blood.