I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

How we need another soul to cling to.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.