I’m going to be horribly tired tomorrow, and probably hate myself a little for staying conscious this far into the blackest part of the night.
But oh well.
I think poets have a tougher time going to sleep, and the world has too much to tell me under its dark blanket tonight.
My life is ok; it’s becoming more and more stable. I can stand up, stop slouching and look around. I can write and smile at the same time, mostly because at the moment I’m not a slave of hidden love anymore. There are just the everyday annoyances that are almost cute in retrospect, like not being able to sleep because of the fly trapped in between my window pane and the screen. Or standing outside in the cold, peering in past the fogged up windshield of my locked car to see my keys resting smugly on the passenger seat.
That stuff is temporary, and I sort of like the fact that it happens sometimes.
Perpetual happiness is not cool, and I don’t care what anyone tells you.
Oh, this too: I have this inexplicable crush on a teacher.
It’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t make me sick or anything. It’s just always there. Sort of nagging, sort of fun. I like it, though it gets in the way.
I wrote a song about it, and the melody is haunting. It plays in the back of my mind when she’s speaking to me, and one day I’ll let her listen to it and I’ll tell her it’s about a boy that I know, which I can easily do because I used the pronoun “you