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Perhaps it's the mundanity of life, but when there is nothing else left to do, I feel that I must create. It should be higher up my agenda, I should be rushing to pick up my notebook and work on projects, but it's only by not doing them that I realise their importance in my life at least.

When I wake up, for the last few days and weeks at least, I feel lost. In most senses of the word, there is no way of reaching a destination. It probably runs deeper than this though – I find myself headed for an unknown place.

There is a momentary lapse in judgement. We’ve all been there, where we’ve taken our eye of the ball for a split second, and yet it is long enough for catastrophic things to happen.

I walk around the city to escape, looking for interesting shapes in the city, that for the most part go unnoticed. I do this because if I don't, I get anxious as if I'm not doing anything. Yet in reality, I aimlessly turn down street after street hoping that there is something that catches my attention.

I suppose it was my Grandma’s last gift to me, to pull me away from myself, my life in the capital, and into the family once more, to support and be supported. To re-charge and re-stock in the company for friends, and for that I am grateful.