20:50.

Today, my immediate supervisor gave me another one of those discussions that veer into the boundaries of talking-tos.

We went through this, similar material, two months ago when I was passed over for confirmation, and when I got into trouble for my blog.

(I think I posted about the former on my old site.

As for the latter, yes, I was called into a room by another supervisor who basically, told me he thought my blog contained "sensitive material" about the company. He also made some remarks which sounded like judgements on my character. It hurted me a lot and I cried while in that room, 'cause I respected this journalist very much and at one time, even looked up to him as the war reporter I want to be and I didn't understand why he was judging me so harshly on a personal level. I used to feel akin with him because I thought our passion for our profession, or to me art, was same.

I never explained why I left my old squat. It's because of that. I don't expect utter privacy when I choose to put up a website with my real name - and now I choose not to - but I couldn't continue writing about my inner thoughts, my life at a place where I specifically know unwanted eyes would be looking at.

To cut a long story short, later on, I discovered it was very possible a colleague I trusted - the only colleague with my URL - had passed my URL to that supervisor. Maybe because she thought I slighted her in my blogs before. I still cannot bring myself to converse with her on a similar level or to trust her.)

Anyhow, back to today. Since the two double whammies - the blog thing happened first followed a week after by the confirmation - hit, I have reverted back to working life in a rountine.

But I do know I'm not over it. If I have to admit it, I think it took a lot more out of me than I care to think.

I like to be more unflappable. Sometimes I am.

Yet the past year I have been with the paper, I had cried more times over my work (in my workplace too, four times) than I had in totality during the entire course of last year.

It's really simple. I'm not supposed to cry over such things, I don't, just never did so before.

Guess I am not above it all, huh. But I never did believe I was. I just didn't... cry.

They say that it's the ones that you love most that hurt you most. Journalism, writing is one of my greatest loves. And forgive me if I am too sensitive, too precious about my job, but it hurts me like crazy to be the way I am now.

Maybe it's burn-out but I absolutely hate the way I cannot seems to be the way I was, to chase stories 24/7, to ALWAYS be on the lookout for stories, to be driven with that unspeakable newshound instinct because I absolutely love journalism.

I still love being a journalist. I will never give up writing and no, don't infer wrongly, I still love journalism itself too.

My immediate supervisor, though at times well intentioned, makes me tired. He doesn't realise it consciously but he is significant reason for my enthusiasm low.

But I'm tired. I can't go on. I cannot find the drive that I had. The love is still there but it no longer makes me move. I can't glide now. I still can write, I still can report, I still can work but where's the magic?

Maybe I talk of my job with a idealism that is foolish but we cannot lose our idealism. We cannot do so. This cannot be just a job. Otherwise, I become just like them.

I'm tired, and I want to be whole again. I need to be healed, Lord, I need to put down my bitterness. For I know there's bitterness inside, anger and spite at the unfairness of it all, at the split in the office now. I don't want to play anymore. I don't want to do the PR, I don't want to do this shite.

Help, God.

For I know "All things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to His Promise".

You are my Rock.