I'm finding it amazing at how little changes from my day to day. I wake, school, work, sleep. My only gauge of consciousness through these turning months is the passing "niveau(s)" of my French class. Maintenant, je suis en niveau quatre. I'm stuck, and with the exception of moving forward with this language, I have done nothing else to show the passage of time. It's almost as if I'm preventing it from being seen. I say this because here I sit on the floor in my apartment I have still not furnished from November, looking at the same clothes, and the same (lack of) bedding strewn throughout my untouched studio. On a side note, I did finally get a shower curtain-and a few dishes. Sigh. Aside from my growing dark roots (retouched every 6 weeks), the tightness in my pants largely due to the self-medication of dairy and chocolate during my morning coffee break ritual, and I suppose the subtle appearance of fine lines, there really is nothing else to differentiate yesterday from today and last month from this month. And yet I've got this stubborness which is fusing my feet to the ground keeping me from changing a thing. I don't have a bed. I still sleep on a borrowed air mattress, and there's really no explanation for that. My clothes are showing signs of wear appropriate only for 1994. Thinking that my skirt was hiding the hole in my stockings, my boss most recently stated that he wasn't employing squeegee kids at his premise. *haha*

I don't know what to do. It's an imploding downward spiral. I hesitate to push through this change I created in my life. Staying in limbo is more safe, the smallest decision: a tiny household purchase, a new season outfit, it all shouts out a committment directed on another path, a path opposite than where it was initially directed. It shows time passing with nothing in me changing and my yesterdays getting more further and further away, a worn photograph album with faded faces and forgotten names.

I can't do it-move forward that is. I seem unable to pull myself from whatever's keeping me stuck. My past, guilt, shame, my billion unanswered questions and frustrations and anger. The baby steps I do manage to make seem more like ones of those treading in mud and not really moving forward but actually just creating more mud sinking me deeper, (and then stealing my rubber boot). *another sigh* I don't think I'm as depressed as I sound, it's probably meer laziness, but what ever it is, I'm still here, sitting on the floor in my old Port Montreal studio with the burned out lightbulbs still unchanged from the previous tenant. However, my roots are growing, my pants tight and I am able to conjugate french verbes in 5 different tenses.