Can't sleep. [journal]

3:15am - Writing by streetlight. Didn't bring any CDs of soft slow music so I'll have to switch often. No one but me awake. I'm sitting at a table in what is basically the rec room downstairs (where the couch is). Had to open some of the blinds to get just barely enough light to see my page. I know this is really bad for my eyes but at least my writing is a lot neater because of the darkness. Anyway, I bet you're wondering about why I'm here, and I should write that quickly before I fall asleep in my chair. My sister is a very quiet sleeper, but my parents have a way of coordinating when one starts whistling from breathing and the other snoring so that they alternate -- whistle, snore, whistle, snore -- in perfect rhythm. Whenever this happens when I'm on the lighter part of my sleep cycle, it's enough to make me wake up. So I'm migrating to the couch. I would somehow take advantage of this aloneness if I could do something with it, but I'm very sleepy and my eyes hurt from squinting to see my writing.

Go on, go on...[journal]

10:07pm - My finger feels shattered or kind of not together when I put any weight on my hand. This means it really needs a break. And I intend to give that to it. Feels like it's asleep but it's not.

Every time I think about getting on the plane tomorrow I think of getting on the car to Edmonton and I start crying. Like right now. It's leaving a familiar place without having everything with me. Not material things but the rest: people I know, music I'm familiar with, a place where I know the way around. From that I become empty. Then desperate for something, some way to make my mark in the new world, something to make my adreneline run and bring back my energy in broad strokes of daylight. The aftertaste of this lingers -- knowing that I could never do what my madness wants me to -- making me wonder why I must be where I am. Thus I am trapped, for even in a home I have not yet found myself, not yet known what I was meant to be and what I am supposed to do to break away from here.

I started drawing some sketches for what would become some sort of poster for my screenplay thing. Only sketches because I don't have any good paper and the expressions on the faces are difficult to illustrate.

No amount of ceremony, I think, would take away my destructive urge -- no games, no simulations, no amount of visual deterrance -- but perhaps only when it is too late to hold it back and it must explode. Thinking of this, how would I ever be brave or patient or innocent enough to subject myself to the bureaucracy and training to own a legal firearm even though I would not be able to carry it with me as I wish? Then must I pursue it through other means, behind the eye of the law, and live forever a fugitive and a criminal, forever hiding something that I should not have to hide, nor should not be wrong for me to hide.