It’s lonely, I noticed. Sometimes I have those who keep me company but the fact is, I hate being up at night. I used to think it was something I enjoyed, but I see now I only thought I enjoyed it because I had no other choice.
I’m scared. I mean, it’s stupid, but I’m sitting here writing a story, and it’s 2:30 AM on Friday morning, and I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m scared of, but the world just doesn’t feel like a place I want to be in right now. I don’t have the energy to try to write this properly or wittily or format it or whatever, and I don’t even know who reads these things, but I don’t know… I don’t know what I want anymore, just like I don’t know what I’m writing anymore, or what I’m doing, half the time. Maybe my life is just one big rant, like this one, and all my efforts to write it properly are useless. Just like my stories, all they do is stop me from ever writing it. Maybe I should let go…
But what exactly do I let go of? How do I know what’s important, what’s real, what’s mine?
