"I know some day you'll have a beautiful life
I know you'll be a star"

[Pearl Jam, "Black"]

I rearranged my room a little the other day: I moved a bookcase and nighttable, and tidied.

Some of you will understand the significance of that statement. Some of you will not. Consider it a gauge to how well you know me.
If you do know - if you understand what that means - then chances are, you are "one", and I love you.
It's almost 4am. I've had some insomnia recently, and obviously again tonight. It's for a combination of reasons, the simplest of which involves caffeine and the most complex of which I don't particularly care to delve into.

There, I think I shall write this entry as the kind of 4am rambling that sounds like a voice-over from Magnolia. It was this or write a mangled poem. That becomes the dilemma, sometimes, you see, when you have something that needs to be expressed, but don't really want to share it with the world either.
"And the good book says... you may be through with the past..."
I am unspent kinetic energy. I am limitless potential unused. My curse is my lack of forward momentum, while inertia and power are things I have in abundance.

I've felt all my life like I'm waiting for something. Or maybe someone. But I don't know what it is. But you can be damn sure it doesn't involve a paper bag, a milk carton, scissors and a green marker. And I've grown sick of waiting. I want for it to be here. I want to arrive or to begin. But I look at my life and feel like I missed. If it were a game, I'd consider this the trial run where you get to learn the rules, that first hand of cards that doesn't count for scoring where everyone places face-up. I'd like a re-shuffle now. I never ran off and became a doctor or lawyer or teacher or whatever it was I was supposed to do, but instead ended up an unemployed insomniac sitting in front of his computer at 4am, babbling to a very obscure few who read him for some bizarre reason that is a combination of good writing and keeping tabs on the waning sanity of a close friend, all the while dancing around the near-nothing in his own head, afraid to express even those few semi-coherent thoughts in there.

Well, wasn't that a lovely little display of the winter blahs?

I need to sleep. Then I need to do a lot of other things. But first. First I'd just like to sleep. What I'd really like is a good sleep. I'd like a deep satisfying sleep with pleasant dreams. I'd like a sleep where I wake up, feeling no discomfort or pain, mental, physical, or spiritual, and the first thing I do, without forethought or reason, is to simply smile, instinctively.

The last time I had a sleep like that was when I was in Bedford, Nova Scotia, housesitting my brother's apartment. I believe it was in around... 95? 96? The closest I've come since was a bit over a year ago, but the room was cold, and the blankets too short.

So I guess I'll go try to settle for a scattered 5 hours of drifting in and out on a lumpy mattress that really needs replacing.

Man, I gotta figure out how to stack this deck.