I have been awake since six AM.
I do not believe my body knows what is best for me, I do not believe that it takes care of itself. If this were true in any way, why would I have woken up and not been able to continue sleeping? Why would I be watching and re-watching Breaking Bad while it's still dark out?
I think I have anxiety. I'm not..sure what that means. It means that when I'm on a plane and it hits a patch of turbulence, I finally feel at ease. Because when my chest seizes up, it is finally justified. This is not easy to admit. This is, in fact, very difficult. To feel like your mind is unraveling for reasons unseen. To feel as if you can't trust your emotions (I have found this to be particularly true, I have never, ever been able to trust my emotions, they always have led me to histrionics, have always led me astray, they are figments of imagination and not kernels of truth).
It's raining this morning. I used to sleep best when it rained. This might have been before my dad got sick. Before I was consumed by writing. Before when I was careless, young, my concerns were ridiculous to me now. I'm not sure what my concerns are now, but they seem less ridiculous. They seem to need more concern. I painted a portrait I really liked recently. I could tell the model wanted it. He kept looking at it, commenting on it, smiling at me. Maybe he was trying to pick me up but I don't think that was it. I rarely think that is it any more, and it means nothing more than it doesn't register on me at this time. I am on some sort of strike. A romantic strike. I refuse to believe anyone would want to be with anyone, let alone me. But, back to this portrait. It's oil and my teacher says it's the best one I've ever done in her class. It finally shows the light. I squinted until it was all blurry and I only painted the light parts. I left the dark alone. When I was done the model talked to me, he smiled at me. At another point I would have liked to talk back to him, but not really now.
The paint was wet and it got on my hands. I could tell he wanted something from me, when people do, and they almost always do, they can never keep it a secret, can they? Maybe the painting, maybe a conversation. It was all I could do to smile politely. He wanted something, sure. Something I had. But I wasn't going to give it up, because sometimes I think we all feel we have so little. Happiness is finite, perhaps, we hold on to what we're able to. He kept grinning and I packed up.
I thanked him and went on my way.