I don't think there's any hope, either. I was just trying to make you feel better.

Why can't I sleep? No rest for the wicked, and all that, I suppose. But really, how wicked can I really be?

I was laying in bed for two hours, trying to fall asleep, before giving up and writing this. I would go out and get something to drink, but that doesn't really help, and it's too late, anyway.

I just laid in bed, thinking too much. My mind drifted from memory to imagination to vexation. I thought of a girl I knew a long time ago, a conversation we had years ago, missed meanings, and what may have been. Or maybe I just conjured up a false memory, to shield me from some god-awful truth.

Why can't I sleep? I relived an argument from months ago. Words said and unsaid - especially unsaid. My verbal jabs are much more poignant spoken silently in the stillness of night.

I think I'm a good person, overall. I can't say I've never hurt anyone - but can anyone really say that? Even if unintentionally, every single one of us has harmed another. Maybe it was someone who deserved it. Maybe we were having a conversation with someone else, and said something hurtful that someone else overheard. Maybe the person we hurt was someone we loved. Maybe it was something said, or done. Or, every bit as likely, it was something we didn't do. Something we weren't there for.

I laid in bed, trying to sleep. The noise from the neighbor's air conditioner humming into the night. They must sleep under yards of down comforters - I'm cold in here, and they have their AC on. My monitor buzzes when it's off. Not really a buzz, I guess - more of a high-pitched whine. I turned on my side, going fetal, my ragged blanket bundled up around me, a cotton womb. I checked my phone - only a few minutes had passed since the last time I checked.

I start writing a story in my head, and it's pretty good. I outline the plot to myself, working out the kinks and inconsistencies. I even write out some scenes in detail, picturing it while translating that into words. It's a short story, of course - my mind is far to feeble to contain anything of considerable length. It's the worst, though, when I write the scenes out in my head - whenever I try to write them down proper, for the world to see, it's never as good as it was before. I lose the exact wording, the images blur, I start to lose the plot. That, and I get bored of it - the story's already played out for me, so it's the verbal equivalent of watching a rerun or a semi-decent drama. Sure, it was good the first time - but once you've seen it, there's no real point in watching it again.

But maybe I'll try writing this one down. To quote _Storytelling_, it's confessional, yet dishonest.

But instead, I write this, to no one in particular. Sort of a public diary, I suppose. Maybe, someday, I'll write something of substance, and that will make all of these rantings seem more interesting. Or maybe I'll die a beautiful, tragic death, which would have the same result - only a bit more on the macabre side.

On that note, good night.




and if you were wondering, the title is also a quote from Storytelling. Great movie, if you can find it. No stores seem to carry it - I've called them all.