only three

Only three this month-I'm slacking off, in life in general. I am not ready for the intense extended essay writing that will happen this weekend, the college essay writing that will hopefully happen and be completed this weekend, the everything else that is going on at the same time. I need to be more diligent, not rely on the adrenaline rush of stress to get work done, get things done earlier so that my insides aren't eaten alive by what I am feeling. I don't want to grow up and be responsible-to have all of these things that I have to do. c yet again halfheartedly tried to get me to skip school, though all the while she knew that we wouldn't, that we never do and probably never will. I think we need to think about skipping school to prevent ourselves from actually doing it-if I start asking myself why I do everything, would I ever get anything done?

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.

I couldn't sleep again last night, and the spell checker is stuck on French spelling so everything I am writing now is underlined in squiggly red, like everything is wrong wrong wrong. I have dread in my stomach again, the place where it always lies, like a large stone that I swallowed inadvertently. I don't know how to make it go away, or how to be happy, or unstressed, or not worried, because it's always there, in my stomach. It's almost as bad as the dread I felt when I was little, the kind that I wasn't aware of because it was always there, and only realized it had been there after it had gone, when I flinched at loud noises and didn't realize that I'd been doing it until after I had stopped. It's back and I'm afraid I can't ever make it go away.

secretly five

I've recently discovered that I really like to read aloud, especially books by Roald Dahl. I am in the midst of George's Marvellous Medicine. I also like to make up little songs about whatever I am doing at the moment. For example, today I made up a really great song about wiggling my toes. Perfectly reasonable. Yesterday, I found out that it's a lot of fun to type in gibberish into google translate and click on the speaker to make it say the gibberish aloud. Depending on what language it's set to, the computer will pronounce the gibberish differently.

Because of all these behaviors, one would think that I like children. I sort of don't. Is that mean?

wish list

to make lists in my head, to be on time, to care about my grades, to go to college, to not go to college, to live in a hammock in the rain forest, to lie on a beach at night and look at the stars while the waves tell me a bedtime story, to read out loud, to be sung to, to travel and know that I can come back home, to have perfect pitch, to be funnysmartbeautiful, to have no homework, to hold hands in the park on a rainy day.

space

I love listening to happy music. Even when I'm not happy, it's comforting to know that somebody, somewhere, at some point was or is. I really wish that I could make happy music. I'm not quite sure how to.

I know I haven't written in a while, here anyway, and I'm not sure why. It's definitely a mental thing. I mean, it's not as if I have nothing to say all of a sudden, it's just...well, I'm not quite sure what it is, precisely. Maybe lack of sleep? Maybe I'm getting homework now that school has started. Maybe I still have some history reading to do and questions to answer. I think that might be part of it.

I keep thinking about how many people live on the planet, and how I don't know them, but how they each have their own separate lives that they are living totally separately from mine, and that they haven't even thought of me, and I've never thought of them, individually. Then I think about how vast the world, the universe, and everything is, and then I can't sleep. Sometimes I wish that I was a robot that could turn off for a certain amount of time, and then at the time I need to wake up, I would automatically turn back on, so that I would always be on time for school. It's sad that everything goes back to school. School has totally consumed my personality.

the why

I'm afraid that I say too much without actually saying anything at all, and I'm afraid that if I start to write most of what I think here, it won't be real anymore because it has left my head. My new literature teacher said that we can't hoard ideas; we need to share them with each other in order to have discourse, and accomplish things. I think that life is different than literature though, even though literature can tell us about life-what if your idea escapes and you forget? What if it was never a good one in the first place? Everything becomes more real once said aloud. There are certain things that I want to say but never do, and there is something that I said once but will probably never repeat, and there are stories I've written that will never be seen by anyone, because I am a greedy idea hoarder always hungry for words, for the right words, but they are always just out of my grasp. Writing is different than talking though, because you can be as honest as you want and say that it's only pretend, but if you're honestly pretending while speaking, you're lying. I don't like lying, no matter what you call it, so I like reading and writing words better than hearing and speaking them sometimes. A lot of the time. I like to pretend that I'm pretending and still have it be the truth.