streetcar

Writing here again, accidentally on purpose, when I should be writing about Blanche and Stanley, the moth and the Man, feels more right. I don't want to talk about the "palpable tension in the air" any more, I think it's more worth it to read the play than my essay about the play anyway, and is there any other way to show that I get it, I know, their worlds are irreconcilable, I know. I know that. How can they not be? I know I need to finish, I know I need to sleep, to eat, to dream so that I have enough energy to get up and do it all over again, riding my bike to school, going through another day of the same classes, doing more homework, practicing violin, the same worries about college and my life and school now repeating in an endless loop in my head, failing to sleep and eat the way I am supposed to, finally sleeping again. why why why-cue mental temper tantrum, because my mushy brain (everyone's brain is mushy) has lost the will to send out electrical impulses, I've lost the will to think and be and here I am now, nearing this point of Done-ness, my eyelids heavy with lost time.