11/23 12:16 am

11/23:
stream of consciousness at 12:16 in the morning

it's so different being awake at this time of night. the house is empty, and the air is cold, and the noise is silenced, except for my clock, it's persistent ticking. i left the blinds open to see the city lights. my head moves and it looks like they're flashing. i'm not tired but i should be. my lamp is on, but not the ceiling light. i can barely see my words. i can almost see my breath. the shadows make shapes. i spy with my little eye a staircase, an angel, a parrot, or a pirate? i crave dancing on my bed to loud music- rock n roll aint noise pollution. but too many people would mind. i think. i wouldn't mind. my mind is blank. i want someone to call. i'm staring at my phone. i'd love to converse. 12:28. i hate the phone, but i wish you'd call. i hear something. everything is so quiet, it could be coming from miles away. a dog bark, or a couple giggling, or a grown man crying deeply. distance can change things when it's least expected. i wish people told the truth in truth or dare. i crave truth. i crave knowledge. are crickets always chirping, simply blanketed by the everyday sounds? or do they really only come out at night, ensuring the recognition of their song. it's cold, but this isn't winter. i want snow under and around me. the real cold. ah, and that's why i'm with him. someone to read my thoughts. hello, i love you. that's what she said. i'm on my bed. i'm staring at four sweatshirts. my nose is thirty two degrees fahrenheit. it's so cold. but the happy cold. the cold where things aren't mean or hurtful, where things make sense. and the second i'd put on a jacket, or crawl beneath the sheets, that crisp clarity, i fear, would fade. i don't think authors mean to use alliteration. i think we're all searching for something that doesn't exist.