I've been up all night writing my little fingers off. So far, and I know it's not too much, I've got 30 pages typed on a word document (1.5 spaced, 10pt font, Times New Roman, 2 columns per page, landscaped paper) and 18 pages of good old fashioned lined paper. It's almost weird that I'm still enjoying this story, but I'm definitely not complaining.

Writing, much like drugs or any other vice, does an excellent job of filling voids and replacing things like social lives and conversation. I feel like an addict; when I'm not writing, time goes by so slowly I practically lose any trace of sanity. But when I write, time disappears all together. I get lost in words and dialogue and plot and characters and before I know it, it's three o'clock in the morning and I'm still writing. My eyes are heavy, my body aches, and I really wouldn't mind falling asleep but I can't stop writing. 

After spending time looking at things I had no interest in seeing, things that drug up old memories and other unwelcome things of the sort, I find it hard to lie still. I wish these things would go away. I wish they would quietly slip into the furthest, darkest, absolutely untouchable recesses of my subconscious mind. Then they wouldn't bother me in such a loud way. Perhaps they would still bother me, though I wouldn't mind being unaware of them.

Oh, fuck. Now I'm rambling and making no sense and being all cryptic and not talking about what I'm really talking about.

It's the most annoying side effect of not speaking out loud, but oh well. No sense in wasting breath on sounds that won't make it to ears, right?

Ha.

Can you tell I'm jumping from hot to cold to lukewarm to burning to subzero in only a matter of moments? Mmm, I think I'll go take those pills the doctor gave me now. They do a fairly good job of making me a zombie.

Night!