It's past one thirty in the morning. Thinking on it, I could probably be asleep in a minute if I tried. But my eyelids aren't drooping, and I'm not sleepy. My mind is wide awake, thinking about everything from plane trips to memories; people to projects. Regina Spektor breathes quirkily-deep lyrics from my speakers, and everyone else in the house should be asleep. I think about the trip I'll take to see my cousin and my mom's side of the family, and I look forward to it with anticipation. I think about a trip I might take in the winter, to Ireland; living on the street, walking where I want to go. Will I do it? I don't really know. But it's fun to dream. Just be careful. Speaking of dreaming, I watched Inception at the cinema. Mind-blowing. I also think about the year I have ahead of me before college. Of course I couldn't really have gone this year if I'd wanted, because I wasn't diligent enough with saving my money, but even though it was my choice to stay home I'm still eager to get on with my education. Not that I can't get educated on my own. But I've always been impatient for the time between times to hurry along. All the same, there's a lot in this year to look forward to. It means I'll get to spend another Thanksgiving with some great people. It means I might go apple picking with the family. It means I'll be around for Christmas. I'll be around to work, to visit my brother in college, to write.
I think I'm getting a little insane. I can see myself beginning to crack. It would be nice to lose myself in study or in writing, or even work or creating things. But I can't. I'm hungry. Hungry, starved, even. I don't even know what to call it, or the source of it, but there's a hunger for something that I'm missing, something that drives me to madness. It's not an explosive madness. Just a quiet, slow slipping out of reality. (I watch too many sci-fi stuff, apparently. Harhar.)
"The quiet, mystic night swallows my aching in obsidian oblivion; a shooting star—a stirring coal: awake, for the morning is near, and clarity is peak as tendrils of light grow like well-watered plants to expose a naked earth, yet uncovered from its slumber, yet unready for the suppressive heat to come." (explain this to me, someone. I don't know what he's saying.)
I told a friend this the other day. I kind of liked it, not because I enjoy this truth, but because I think it's something we should all think about: "Humans are emotionally more durable than they admit; but their ideas and emotions are more fragile than any will acknowledge."
There's that, and of course this one, in closing: "Even the best of us sometimes eat grapefruit."