Originally written Aug 25th, 2015

I stay up late. All the time. Almost every day in fact. The physical exhaustion is real. I’m tired all the time. But I continue to do it… Why? I’ve finally figured out why I do this, on a subconscious level. I stay up, exposing myself to constant mental stimulation. It keeps my mind on other things, away from bad things. It keeps me safe from myself. I fear going to bed. I fear trying to fall asleep. Those moments, then minutes, then hours of trying to fall comatose: That’s where all the bad comes. All the mistakes, all the regrets, all the things I didn’t want to know, and all the things I wish I could know. This heaping pile of mental exhaustion, depression, love, hate, and everything in between, stumbles in, unannounced. I guess at this point it’s expected. I basically leave the door open for all the shit and eviscerated remains of good memories to file into the forefront of my brain, like a queue of hopeless college freshman into their first class. I can’t stand it. Sometimes I don’t have problems. Sometimes I can think about the good just long enough to drift into nirvana. I can do the same thing every single man with an internet connection does at night. It helps, sometimes… Sometimes I can’t do those things, and I think, fight, debate, cry, suffer and reenact it all until my mental state resembles a viscous gloop of jelly, at which I crash, I’m out. Does this make me crazy? Am I the only one? Why can’t I rid myself of these feelings and emotions? I want happiness for all. I wish it upon everyone. I hope I’m not forgetting myself. I’ll get through this, I always do. I’m making mountains out of anthills. But then again, if I am only an ant, an anthill is my mountain……………. That’s it……. I’m realizing it all, as I’m typing this out. An anthill is to an ant as a mountain is to me. I am only an ant, and this anthill is a mountain to me. But my realization…. It’s not about changing the size of the hill, it’s about changing my own size to be bigger than the hill. I have to make myself bigger than my own problems, and not let the little things control me. The conversation no one really heard, the stumble while walking no one really saw, the two years of emotional distress over what never was, and what wouldn’t have been, with who isn’t what you remember. It’s all bullshit. I know it is. This whole thing switches from a first person point of view to second person at random, and I’m sorry. I’m talking to myself. I wish someone was listening…. Anyone… It’s all bullshit. It really is…. And so is sleep. Sleep is bullshit… But I’m tired. So goodnight. I need sleep.