Up to my ears in feminism . . .

The library is beginning to cool down. My mind is wandering. My scarf and jumper don't quite seem enough to stop me shivering. And my head keeps battling with itself and with the constant struggle of a dissertation that seems to increase in size, depth and scope with every article that I read. It seems an impossible task - and even putting down a hundred words seems near to unachievable. Somehow it is easy to see this 10,000 words as an attempt to prove - not only to myself but also to the entire world that feminism is a useful approach to a study of war.

Robbie sits opposite me with his never-ending focus and neatly inscribed pages of colour coordinated notes, highlighting African economic theories.

Chris and his quiet contemplative look have almost reached the end of his political theory book next to me, the quotes he intends for his essay referenced and waiting for use in his lined notebook beside him.

I look at my section of the table - it is a sprawl of papers, half transcribed interviews with refugees in Georgia, books marked with doodling and pictures in the margins, quotations written and half referenced on the back of play scripts, one novel dyed red now from a wine stain, another smudged from getting caught in the rain with, outline after outline in ever brighter and bolder calligraphy in the back of novels and in amongst my appointments in my diary.

I wonder how I have managed to reach the fourth year of university at all.

I could sit and talk about gender and war forever. But actually creating an argument constantly escapes me - for every outline that I configure interupts itself with the other aspects I want to include. And I can't decide if I've read too much or am woefully illiterate in the full scope of what I should have read. My thoughts seem as jumbled as my desk section.