Being sad is strange. I find it tidal. It ebbs and flows.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the sea and about poetry. Not in a cheesy, clichéd, picture-postcard-perfect rendition. But in considering the ocean of the future. The ocean after ice melt.

And it’s big, and it’s scary.

Reading about the science, visiting the Scott Polar Museum in Cambridge. Going to a conference and hearing voices from the Inuit communities who are already directly affected by climate change. I find it hard to wrap my head around it all. Being safe and dry in a rented house in Stockport, feeling powerless to affect change or do anything to help.

Feeling unable to do anything about climate change, about current local and global injustice. Feeling tired and trapped.

Trying to complete a book review, trying to write without feeling mentally paralysed, trying to fight fear of failure or even success.

Trying.