This is why I don’t take naps.
My entire sense of sleep vs. awakeness is off balance and out of whack.
I’ve got pieces of pieces…of something that need to be sewn together. But I’m too tired to work, and too awake to drift off.
The bright yellow notepad on my iPhone is making my eyes water. Maybe that’s exhaustion. I can’t tell the difference anymore…between tired, and near death. When I’m editing nonstop and my eyes start to sting I typically just grab a glass of water, blink a few times and get right back to it. Probably should work on my whole recuperation remedies. Maybe…yeah, yes.
I could pass out right now, but not sleep at the same time.
I’d rather write. I feel “stuffed” and congested with thoughts and patterns of nouns and adverbs.
Could I be anymore lazy in this moment? My phone is in my palm and I’m typing with just my thumb. Slowly typing, dozing between statements.
I should just sleep. What I want to say is not finding it’s way to the surface anyway.
Questioning…intentions. You know that uneasy place in which someone you thought was more…”real” and genuine, and aware…suddenly reveals themselves to be…idk, human. And well human sometimes can feel dissapointing. Especially if you’ve unrealistically elevated them to more evolved standards.
Don’t do that.
Don’t elevate people. I do it too often. I care, and too quickly. I leave my insides out only to get frostbite in return.
I’m censoring. Slightly. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on. And the creative juices within are a little pissy at me for it.
“Why bother with brilliantly entangling the alphabet if you’re just gonna throw it out?”
Says the crazy writer within.
“wasting my literary genius away!”
Gosh. Cocky much?
I’m fucking crazy.
Yeah, like completely nutz. Marbles lost.
But shit, I think it’s part of my charm. That whole loony with a side of insane. Really turns women on.
My poor back. I’m too young to ache this much
I’m too young for a great deal of things…
and…to old for others…perhaps.
The screen is making my eyes water again.
My subconcious is banging trying to get out. The uptight prude in me has it locked up, just in case it tries to slip up and say some dumb shit.
I majored in dumb shit literary science, with a minor in random as hellology.
See, case and point.
Potty mouth needs soap.
I need Jesus. Or double fudge brownies, whichever comes first. Neither would calm my nerves really. It’s a shame I never got into drugs. My life would be so much more relaxed if so. But nope, clean as a whistle. Coo coo and highly aware of the coo.
I’m too tired to really dive into my psyche. I tried, but currently I’m failing. Sleep has won.
I give in.