There was a time in my second year of university, and the beginning of my third year, when I can remember drowning in a small pool of distress. I remember writing out my revolutionary problems of coming to terms with the demons I developed 11 years prior to that point in time and I suddenly realized and recalled in stunning detail, the nature of my inner-turmoil. And all that information is contained in notebooks and old, dated journals that scream of a certain kind of loneliness and darkness and a quest for something ‘missing’. And it’s off because I didn’t know then what that was, only that maybe one day I would find it. Then I started writing classes.