i don't feel any different.

I refuse insomnia. I adore my sleep, and it is never shy visitor.
Why tonight? Possibly because I was too busy all day to have more than a weak, watery, styrofoam encased cup of church offering - they called it coffee - until I made myself some of the strong stuff at seven tonight. I never do that. I'm almost elderly in that I cut myself off around noon. Perhaps two in the afternoon if its a Friday that begins my weekend.
I don't know. I'm not exactly wired, and I really would prefer my subconscious to blogger at the moment.

Sorry, blogger.

all these things, Internet world! All these things I wish to say to you right now.
Because its two a.m. and I'm lonesome for someone to listen. And to hold my hand, but give me all the space I need.

I've watched more movies/tv shows in the last month than my entire previous life combined.

So i heard a quote from one of them that goes, "I want you to love me more than anything. The rest is detail."

I am all strung up on the gory, beautiful, horrifying detail.

Jolene

Still don't know,
What love means.

unknown

That feeling of missing someone or you've never met. Where does it come from?

weekend

It amazes me the white that comes through the chinks.  In every suit of armour there is a flaw.  In every dragon's breast there is one scale fleshier than the rest. 
I feel as if I used to know which was the weak and which was the strong; holed up in my bedroom on a cold December afternoon reading adventure stories - that chink, that flaw, the missing piece was always the weakness.  It was what made the peasant the victor to be knighted and the dragon to be dead.
When I was seven I believed fairy tales because I wise enough to not question the truths presented; truth depicted in crimson, flashing swords, visions and jesters. I unknowingly coloured in the missing parts with imagination and longing. 
Now I question if the chinks - the softest parts - are really strengths, after all.

Balance

It was enough, today, to not wash my hair. Just twist it up in messy knot entwined with my Grandmother's silk scarf.  It was enough to recover an old necklace pendant that didn't match my outfit, and wear it anyhow.  It was enough to make a nonsensical, too-much-money purchase in a store that oozed out heavy perfume and character.  It was more than enough to lean up against a wooden coffee bar, and listen as the barista explained the process of the cappuccino, made for me. 
Everyone is so drunk on excess pleasure; so Hellbent on infusing every living moment with a conjured up notion of creativity, colour, and motion - in the mission of attaining, they're so numb they've forgotten how to feel, or sense, or envision - myself included.
When your life has become a beige pattern ruled by times, apparel, and expectations, a little goes a long way.  I complain more than I care to admit about choices I freely made, knowing rules came with the deal before ever sealing it.  I've underestimated how much these "cramping" restrictions have shown me: the stark reality of other things, such as, "contentment" and what it truly means: That it isn't a breezy sort of happy that fluctuates as as easily as a prairie wind; that it's a constant - or should be - habit formed, and reformed.  Sometimes the reforming hurts the most.
It is enough to pause mid-schedule and let go a little bit.  Not everything.  Not stupidly. Not completely.  Not irrationally.  But enough.
It is enough to pay extra for good coffee, to skip a class, to daydream.