If my hands could only move as fast as my mind.

Aug 11, 2008 - 13:01 PM PST

An experience of me trying to go to bed, but writing everything I can get down before my brain changes subjects.

What time is it? 11:18pm. I took my medicine over 45 minutes ago, I should be asleep by now. I lay staring at the clock on the ceiling; I felt clever one day and bought a clock that projects the time on the ceiling. My eyes are wide. I'm sure my pupils must be stretched to the edge of my iris', like they were forming an eclipse.

Money. How am I going to pay all the things that I need to pay? I could work overtime, and get caught up. What do I owe? Tmobile, Comcast, Water. I should get up and check my bank account. No, I spent a lot of money over the past 2 days and I don't want to worry more. I wonder where my phone is.

Pulling the covers off, I lean up and try to find the familiar green flash that lets me know it's still alive. I see a light. Blue? Oh yeah, I was talking to Alex. I read the text message she sent me, and choose to not write back. She sent the message almost an hour ago, that would only strike more of a conversation.

What is Mandi doing? I should write her back, she did write me, although it was more of a reverse PITA of the past few days. I feel like I need to write. Laying in bed I realize that the only reason I like to write is that I can delete. I can say whatever I want to say, no one will say anything back, and if nothing else, I can revise and turn stubble into shaven, words cleverly blended without a copyright.