I never sleep anymore. When I do, I wake even more tired than when I went to bed. I feel like I've been hit by a truck or something. Let me stay, I beg to my body. It isn't listening. I have duties, responsibilities. Family, applying to college, keeping up with my blog, my friends (old and new), films to watch, books to devour, things to learn. And it's all so daunting that for a moment I just want to slip into an opiate haze again and give up. Let go and drown. Dark and deep beneath the water. But I don't. I rise, stretch. I'm not exaggerating when I say that everything hurts. I have perpetual neck cramps and tension headaches that never really go away. Stress and poor support from my pillows, I guess. Shitty posture. More things to work on, more things to correct. I'm still losing weight, but a day of indulgence and rest from my exercise leaves me looking at my body swearing that I've gained everything back. I don't know how much either way, because I'm terrified of scales. I'm improving, though, in some small ways, in others large. I learned Samara's Song on piano just pressing the keys like someone just learning to type, without the proper... uhhh... je ne sais quoi... hand placement? Yeah, something like that. But now I'm putting my fingers on the keys and learning when to press down. I close my eyes and my fingers, my ears, are starting to dance in sync. I know it's a simple song in nature, I know it's just one thing on piano. But dammit, I'm proud of myself. I taught myself most of it while I was drunk. If that's not a sign of being awesome and persistent and intelligent, I don't know what is. I play it every day, I get lost in it and time stops. It's a nice creepy little tune, melancholy, but I think I'm getting a little weary of it and I don't want to play it so much I hate everything from The Ring. But hey... I have money now... maybe I could get proper piano lessons! That would be glorious. There are other things going on, things that crawl around my room at night that I don't want to face, not even here in a journal no one reads where I'm somewhat safe. But I'm okay. Better than. I'm pretty good. A little neurotic sometimes, but good.I can't wait until Winter. Give me cold and sweaters, give me windchill, give me days of rare blessed sunshine where I run on nothing but liquids and caffeine and Ritalin, writing poetry and doing research and going places and accomplishing s**t, getting smaller and smaller, feeling like a god. Maybe I really am like my mom and others in the sense that I get a bit manic in Wintertime, maybe it's hypomania, or maybe it's just MY season. I don't care to overanalyse it, that's how my stupid brain ruins everything. So I'll do as I please and I'll keep conquering, keep flying.