Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

a tempest of thought (something prosaic)

I’ve gotten in the bad habit of not sleeping.

Case in point, it’s currently 8:13 in the morning as I start typing this essay, and I haven’t slept since 11 yesterday morning. Sure, I haven’t been up for twenty-four hours, no, the last time I did that was sometime during the summer, despite my body’s best efforts to make me pass out on a friend’s couch. This is still an unhealthy amount of staying awake on my part. For the past week or two I’ve been averaging five hours or so of sleep during the week, making up for it with half-day long sleep marathons during the weekend. I have friends that call me during those marathons, and they often tell me I answer the phone with a distinctly irate tone.

I’ve yet to find a reason as to why I’m being this stupidly irrational. Before I started writing this, I was watching television on the internet (even though there’s a television no more than six feet away from me) while fighting the urge to close my eyes and doze off for a bit. I probably would be dreaming of unicorns instead of blasting some sad songs through earbuds to keep me awake. At least when I do finally sleep, my dreams will be of tragic space operas in which I, the protagonist, meet the girl that will always be there but I will never have, pine for her affections for upwards of two years before finally offing myself in a theatrical fashion because she found someone that had the gonads to ask her out for space coffee. Tragic-space-opera me could have asked her out for space coffee, but tragic-space-opera me is afflicted with the same tragic flaw that I’m afflicted with.

I tend to think too much.

Through no fault of my own, really. Well, actually, all the fault is placed on my shoulders. People have been telling me to think of the future lately, and I don’t quite like to think of the future. I (along with my tragic-space-opera counterpart) have deluded myself into thinking the future doesn’t matter as much as what’s happening right fucking now, after all, I barely remember the past on my own accord and the future is something that’s a glimmer on the horizon. Even if that glimmer on the horizon is a bullet train propelled by sheer power of will (and rocket fuel), I’ll still think that it won’t take two seconds before smacking me in the face. I’ve told myself that what counts is what I can do now, with my hands, with my words, with my tired but willing disposition. Currently, they’re all occupied with this, whatever this is.

My birthday’s in a few days. I’m still very, very young and I already consider myself to be tired. Maybe it’s the fact that in the bureaucracy that is my brain, Sunday’s minimum quota for sleep hasn’t been filled yet. It’s also because I’m reaching the end of a twelve year long chapter of my life, and quite frankly, twelve years of the same thing, eight hours a day,  five days a week for 180 days of the year can be a bit tiring. The future holds longer hours and more days of the year for an even longer period of time, I’m sure, but hell. I haven’t experienced that yet. Instead, I’m on the precipice of whatever leads to those longer hours for more days of the year. And it’s absolutely terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. I have to say it twice for good measure, because adding too many adjectives wouldn’t have the same effect as repetition, even though I’m pretty sure that works better with the spoken word. Childhood is effectively over for me, whatever sense of security I’ve been coddled into is about to be stripped away. What I’ve built up over these past twelve years, when I finally gained a bit of sentience, of independence, in matters of social interactions and whatnot, is about to be stripped away as well. What I have before, effectively what I have now, shall never be the same.

I don’t like that thought.

One by one I see the people I have grown to trust come to decisions for their years to come without so much as blinking their eye three times in quick succession or writing a bullshit angst-driven essay. They’re to disperse themselves to the winds, directed only by their desire for who they want to become. I have a hazy notion of who I want to become. Things are staring down at me, forms I must fill out, money that has to be earned, so that I can have a semblance of direction. I’ll reiterate that once again I’m absolutely terrified of wandering aimlessly when I really should have an idea of where I’m going, and doing so without the readily available consul of the people I’ve grown to trust.

Family is one thing, but friendship is an entirely different story. Someone once told me that a city like New York is a very fast city. It’s a city travels at a breakneck speed, the friendships that you form with the people you meet are ephemeral at best. The idea of an ephemeral friendship bugs me. To pour your heart out into a glass of ice, a cold, unfeeling vessel that starts to melt away as soon as you start pouring your heart into it is something that I don’t quite like. To think that you’ve laid your soul bare to someone that will just fade away eventually isn’t really something I like to think about. It’s something that I really don’t like happening. But we’ll all fade away eventually. And even that’s something I really don’t like thinking about, for reasons that for those who know, know. We’ll all fade away eventually. I’ve come to grips with that, actually. It’s still terrifying, but I’ve come to grips with it.

I was told over Jack in the Box that I’ve really not liked change since I was a child. I’ll eventually get over whatever caused this thousand-or-so word verbal spillage, though my ship’s gone more than a bit off-course I’ll manage to find my way back to where I’m supposed to be. I’ll hope to whoever’s up there (if there’s anyone up there at all) that the genuinely interesting people I’ve met will continue to be in my life because for the first time for some time, I’ve found a handful of people that I wouldn’t want to let go.

All I can really do is keep sailing and let this tempest pass.

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