I am dead tired, and I deserve it. But I'm also just tired. Tired of fighting off the urge to do all the wrong things. Fighting the urge to get drunk, sleep in, skip class, skip work, skip life. Fighting the urge to just be disappointed, even if it's unfair to be disappointed. Fighting the urge to question obvious curiosities, peculariaties, scientific mysteries. Fighting the urge to dive deep when it is best to stay in the shallows. No, no, no. I close my eyes, I don't dip a foot in the pool, I tell myself I don't see any of it, can't make out the darkness underneath. And I am tired of counting down from a 100 when I've already spied exactly where the object has hid itself away.
Or maybe I'm just tired. I need some sleep. I need some San Francisco. I need some flour, some sugar, some eggs. I need the safety of the fantasy that is my life on the West Coast, to protect me from the realities that keep licking the panes of the glass house I have built around myself. Try to keep myself away from me. I'm not taking visitors bearing grim reality, not yet. Not yet.
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