Hello There (Tuesday Morning/Afternoon)

((I found this after I woke up on Tuesday, I jut now got to posting it...I have my reasons))

The date is August, 6th 2014.

I’m lounging right now, stretched across the couch. I swear it could eat me alive, I fit so perfectly on this couch, but it never does. Every time I go to sleep, I wake the next day, mixed at what to feel. Am I glad that I didn’t die? Am I upset that I woke from a dream that seemed so real, and was everything I thought I wanted? I can’t remember now, the details always slip away. Maybe it wasn’t everything I had thought it was upon waking. I mean, shouldn’t you remember something that was supposedly good?

I’m sorry; I haven’t actually slept in over 24 hours. This probably won’t make sense. My mind when like this, this being over tired, or sleep deprived, or whatever they call it where you can’t sleep but your eyes are begging you so badly they tear up, and every time you blink it feels like you are running sand paper against them. Yet at the same time it feels like Heaven is singing in your ears, or you just got a hug from someone you haven’t seen in years, or maybe even a kiss from someone you’ve been crushing on. It’s a good feeling even as it hurts, but I get distracted again. I can’t sleep. I can close my eyes right now, and my eyes would thank me, even as my brain continued to run. It would jump from one thought to the next no pausing.

I don’t think I’m an insomniac, but I’m not qualified to diagnose things like that. I just sighed, my thoughts of where I was going with this left. Now I’m just typing what I think as I think it. I’m very sorry you are reading this. You can stop anytime you’d like. I can’t judge you. I can’t even see you. For all I know, no one will read this. I’m not sure on how I should feel with that revelation. How should one feel knowing there’s a possibility that only one, the one typing it, will read it?

But what if someone read this? Would they think it crazy? Would they relate to it? Would they stop to actually consider anything that was typed out? I’m not sure. I can’t answer questions like that. I’m the composer, and you are the reader, only you can answer my questions. But would you answer them? Would you care enough to? Would you ask me questions back? Would you share your opinion with me, while graciously thinking of my own? Or would you try to shove your opinions down my throat, metaphorically making me choke on them? Hoping that I would change my mind and come around to your way of thinking? Are you even still reading?

I told you before, my mind tends to wonder while sleep deprived. I don’t mind it so much, unless I need the sleep. I know I’m hurting myself by not sleeping. But I can’t force myself. I’ve done it so many times. I’ll sleep but I won’t wake rested, and what’s the point in sleeping if there is no true rest? What would be the point to sleep, if you only wake more tired than when you went to bed? I don’t think there would be any point to it. I think that you’d be awake with your eyes closed, but your brain tricks you into thinking you are asleep, so when you ‘wake’, you aren’t really rested at all. The dark bags under your eyes, looking like you could be an extra in a horror film, or maybe the star bad guy, would prove that.

I’ll most definitely repeat myself, and again I apologize.

Have you ever had a point where you couldn’t sleep no matter what you tired? Every time your eyes close and you relax, you realize that they are open again? Every time you concentrate one a specific think like your heart beat, you start counting, and then realize you’ve made it to a thousand or more? What about thinking of a song, once that you know would make you fall asleep, and then you just have to listen to it? What about thinking of a story idea, and then you start plotting it all out, and next thing you know you have three chapters to a story you didn’t even realize you would write? I’ve done that and more. I’d go on but really my mind decided that it was enough examples, so here we are.
Ha, I just stared at the screen, and bit my thumb nail; I was actually trying to focus on writing this. I had thought this would be a weird love letter to a random someone when I had started, now it’s more of a want to be Journal.

I actually have a Journal. I got it for a Christmas present. I didn’t start writing in it till after the New Year. It was January 26th, 2009 when I first wrote in it. I know I just checked. Yeah, I have it next to me. My little black velvet Journal, keeper of my secrets and insecurities that I couldn’t trust to a human. Don’t worry; I won’t bore you with my entries…but maybe some of you would like one or two of my secrets…or maybe just curious about me, and would like a peek? Sorry, not really, but while you don’t know me, and you couldn’t really hurt me with your knowledge of me, I can’t trust someone I’ve never met with secrets. What I tell you here, is no secret to me.
Anyway, it was really strange I remember, I’d had a bad couple of weeks, getting sick, my house flooding, and yet I turned to an empty book, and spilled my heart out. I wrote,

‘Dear Journal,
I bet that’s how they all start, trying to make it seem like we are talking to people and not books.’

That and the Date and time I started writing, were the first words I ever put into that book. I continued to spill my heart out, as if I was talking to someone, very much like I am writing this. I don’t believe my Journal will ever be read but, I doubt this will either, however never hurts to be prepared right?

Haha, I actually waited a moment, thinking I’d get an answer right away. That’s just a bit sad isn’t it? Now back to what I was saying. I’d written in that Journal when things had gotten too much, and no one would listen or I didn’t feel I could trust a human. This Journal is my history, and everyone has a dark past. I eventually stopped writing ‘Journal’ or ‘Dear Journal’ when I wrote in it. Why? Might you ask, well if you didn’t you did now and I’ll tell you. It’s because my Grandmother died on June, 1st 2009. I updated my Journal on June 3rd, 2009, and a week later, June 8th, 2009 was the last time I called it Journal. Then next time I wrote, I had someone to talk to. I had my Grandmother. June 11th,2009, is when I tried to find a way to keep the dead with me.

You see, I know everyone dies…but I childishly believed she never would. I thought it was something that happened to others. Well, my Grandma loved to prove me wrong, so she did the only way she knew how. She died, proving to me, that even those I love can, and will die. It hurt so much, but I had to hold it together for my Mother. I needed to be her rock. I remembered I cried for about twenty minutes in my then boyfriends, now fiancé’s arms, and after that nothing. No tears. To the outside world, I was over it. She was dead; she was now in a better place. But my Journal Entries tell another story all together. I continue to write to her, using the Journal. I’d once asked her how much a stamp would cost to send a letter to Heaven. Then I realized, she was probably reading over my shoulder. It’s been 5 years, and I still talk to her. I make sure to write to her on her birthday, her death day and important holidays. I know she’s dead but I can’t let her go…is that wrong?

(I ended up being able to got to sleep before I finished...