Fuck you to that bullshit. I've counted breath. I am just being me. I am doing what I can to fall asleep. I can't.
I've finished Season 3 of Weeds. What else would I be doing in a restless night?
I think I'm going through withdrawal this weekend. Withdrawal of sex, affection and security. I've been plagued with thoughts and memories. Talking to people. Calling people. Trying to get closure. Thinking about picking up a phone and telling certain people, "We need to meet and talk." I won't name names, but ideas have popped in and out.
Then I sit in the subway car, as this often happens on the train, and I think how silly it must all seem. Can't you just forget and move along. I think of how indirectly cruel people can be. How human beings abandon each other repeatedly and without a second thought. Maybe it only happens in this city, but it's happens nonetheless.
I sit up at night and I think about the future, something I know I can't control. I think about where life is going. I think where it may go, where it could go. How do I get there? What parts should I be more alert on than others?
I think about my job, or lack thereof. I think of when to start applying for new jobs. What will I apply for? Will I find a job I want to work with for a while. Will I settle for something in between? I think about how difficult it can be to apply and I wonder if I'll get lucky again. Will a friend help me out? Will I have to do it on my own?
Oh and let me guess this is the moment (If I were explaining this out loud) that you would offer advice. Telling me to relax, not worry about the future, count breathes, meditate, think about only tomorrow...
Well, I'm not asleep and I've tried all that. So I'll continue...
I think about being alone. I think about Dancer From The Dance and the message that's projected in that book. I'm not through it yet, but it sits on my shoulders like a heavy weight. Things seem so unchanged since the 1970s in Gay Culture. The parties, the lifestyle, the trips to Fire Island, etc. If I read that book unaware of the time it's set. I'd shrug and say I was reading a book written a couple of months ago.
I talked with a kid I went to high school years ago. He's a baby. I IM'd him to say hello. I said that I didn't want to talk about issues that would make me upset. The fetus proceeded to bring up dead stories from our high school years that were probably things I never wanted to remember. When he started telling me how excited he was for Legally Blonde and Prisilla Queen of the Desert the Musical to arrive, I knew he was full of nothing useful.
I'm not complaining. Oh, no. After 2 AM, it's free range. That's why insomniacs stay up, not to complain, but to reflect. It sounds like complaining, because no one looses sleep over good news. The fact that I am typing this up on a blog says that I'm not in that bad of a situation. The day I can't type about my insomnia. Then I'm in trouble. If that day comes...
Sorry my mind only thinks as far as tomorrow.
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