I don't know why I'm writing this.

That's not true. Maybe I do know, and just don't want to admit it to myself.

I don't even know what to call it - this thing I'm writing. It feels a little pretentious to call it a diary. It's not like I have anything to say. Anne Frank kept a diary, or Samuel Pepys - not someone like me. Calling it a "journal" sounds too academic, somehow. As if I should write in it every day, and I don't want to - if it becomes a chore, I'll never keep it up.

Maybe I'll call it nothing. An unnamed something that I occasionally write in. I like that better. Once you name something, it stops you seeing all of it, or why it matters. You focus on the word; which is just the tiniest part, really, the tip of an iceberg. I've never been that comfortable with words - I always think in pictures, express myself with images - so I'd never have started writing this, if it weren't for Gabriel.

I've been feeling depressed lately, about a few things. I thought I was doing a good job hiding it, but he noticed - of course he did, he notices everything. He asked how the painting was going - I said it wasn't. He got me a glass of wine, and I sat at the kitchen table while he cooked.

I like watching Gabriel move around the kitchen. He's a graceful cook - elegant, balletic, organised. Unlike me. I just make a mess.

"Talk to me," he said.

"There's nothing to say. I just get so stuck in my head sometimes. I feel like I'm wading through mud."

"Why don't you try writing things down? Keeping some kind of record? That might help."

"Yes, I suppose so. I'll try it."

Don't just say it, darling. Do it."

"I will."

He kept nagging me, but I did nothing about it. And then a few days later he presented me with this little book to write in. It was a black leather cover and thick white blank pages. I ran my hand across the first page, feeling its smoothness - then sharpened my pencil, and began.

And he was right, of course. I feel better already - writing this down is providing a kind of release, an outlet, a space to express myself. A bit like therapy, I suppose.

Gabriel didn't say it, but I could tell he's concerned about me. And if I'm going to be honest - and I may as well be - the real reason I agreed to keep this diary was to reassure him - prove that I'm okay. I can't bear the thought of him worrying about me. I don't ever want to cause him any distress or make him unhappy or cause him pain. I love Gabriel so much. He is without doubt the love of my life. I love him so totally, completely, sometimes it threatens to overwhelm me. Sometimes I think-

No. I won't write about that.

This is going to be a joyful record of ideas and images that inspire me artistically, things that make a creative impact on me. I'm only going to write positive, happy, normal thoughts.

No crazy thoughts allowed.