I write again tonight, as I have done so many nights. Again I lie alone while my husband is tending to his duties, while I am bored in my room. I cannot express my feelings to anyone but you diary, but if I do not tell anyone how I feel I am afraid that I will explode. I often think about that I had so many dreams when I was younger and I had so many expectations to what my life would become. I had imagined myself as a proud woman, a woman who married for love and not out of respect for my family. I imagined myself as a good wife, and yet I am now in doubt. It seems as though my husband is not satisfied with my ways. His look, when looking at me, has changed. I try to look glad when I am presented to something, I try to show him that I appreciate what he has given me, but I am not convinced that he understands this the way that I want him to. I had dreamed that I would make a difference in the world through literature and my writings, even though deeply affecting myself I am not convinced that this will become popular amongst others, or that they will feel the same when reading my literature. I am only a simple woman trying to coexist in a world where women are lesser thought of than men. I am only a woman who is also a person with feelings, who is also a writer and who is also a wife. I am not sure that I have my priorities in order and maybe that is the reason why I fail to obey some of all of the duties that come with being a woman. I am not sure what this life will bring me in the future, however I hope that my life as a wife as well as a writer will develop and grow into something more fruitful and enjoyable for both me and my dear husband. I must leave you now, diary, but I will return soon.