I never really go anywhere except work and school. Bars are lonely places unless you go with friends. And the whiskey here doesn't have water in it. Haunt coffee places looking concerned at logic homework and googling translations of german words with too many syllables.

My dreams have been of a particular caste recently. All warmth and good-smelling, lots of tumbling around. Strange how we let ideas get the better of us. They slip in when you're not paying attention and lay eggs of sneaky desire in your brain.

I need to do well in this logic class for a number of reasons. Chiefly, I need this class to satisfy the Quantitative reasoning credit or some such. It will also allow me to finish up my Philosophy minor. Most importantly though, it will allow me to prove to myself that I can do something that is hard and has defeated me before. Had the first exam yesterday, and felt prepared enough to over-answer in a few places. Really hope that this goes well this time.

Poetry used to really be an important part of my life. It found me early, as I can remember the construction and printer paper books we'd make and how I would ask to stay in during lunch so I could write. For me it has always served a necessary function, a more cohesive way to work things out than any sculptures I made. Reading one's own work serves as more of a diary entry than the most blunt and poignant one to my name. Writing is a thoughtful, contemplative and patient exercise. It's no wonder I haven't written anything in a while.

Bought a pretty little journal to encourage myself to put ink to paper, to draft, something. It used to be such a part of who I was and how I viewed myself, but photographs were as well and I find myself without camera or robust body of work.

The first real infatuation with anyone I ever really had was over his words. He was/ is the strangest bird. He lives in town now, and I always hope to bump into him. In early early high school I met him, much older. He was a poet, a singular man the likes of whom I've seen nothing worth comparing to. He's also a musician of sorts. He had a CD that he gave out for the drama club senior dinner that year, which obsessive high school me pretty much knew by heart by the end of the summer. Somehow what he wrote communicated for him, and only hinted at the strange and fantastic things he had inside of him. Wrapped a string from a shirt of his around a plastic bracelet, painted it with clear fingernail polish and did not take it off until senior year, where I sort of broke it off of my arm in a ceremonial giving up of childish ways. Luckily we are all weird things. I want to be able to use poetry to help me communicate again. There's so much I feel like I wouldn't get to say otherwise.

The day-night seems brighter to us
the moon behind the choke of clouds
the dark, it beams at us in waves
gin-soaked colors beat out our new allegiance.

There are many recurring things in my dreams, but the least common of these is places. I see the same people, the action even will be the same, but rarely the same place. Now I've dreamt twice of this hotel. It's on a beach somewhere, and it seems I'm always staying on the very top floor. I remember it as having 41 floors: you could either take the elevator that went so fast it made me dream nauseous or take the escalator up to the top floor which took forever. There are a lot of windows, and a lot of blue. I remember a pool outside. I wonder if I'll go there again.

Why is it that attraction to one's instructor makes paying attention easier? Or harder, I'm not certain yet. Sometimes I lose track of what he says when he's talking, because he talks with such a delightful accent. Pretty longhair'd men are my Achilles heel.

This semester is frightening. Retaking a class once failed, a science, a high-level class for my major and a language. But at the end of the second week, I am cautiously optimistic. More on this as it develops.

At my very core, I am sad. Though I have days in which I don't feel sad at all, and even days that I might not remember what sad even means, in my quiet moments and my time to myself, I feel it. Sometimes I feel it pulling at the edge of my mind, but I shrug it off. Sometimes it pulls hard, and this is why I have a habit. It pulls hard most of the time now. Sometimes it finds me in my dreams and I carry it with me all day. It's like a warm, comfortable blanket made of small barbs that I drape around myself. Sometimes its disheartening to think that at my zenith of existence, in that moment in which I am the most happy that I will ever be, I will inevitably find myself back, warming at the fire of my inner despair. I have felt like this for as long as I can remember.

Halfway done with a paper that's due on Tuesday. It's a good bit more done than I am usually at this juncture. And I only have German class tomorrow, so I have most of the day before work to finish off the rest. The topic is fairly easy. I'm more concerned with the final I have on Thursday. Been trying to take breaks in writing the paper to create a few flashcards and peck out some ideas for that final essay. The following week will be the worst, with a final Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday.

Making this all seem a bit better is the pleasant soreness from the concert on Saturday. Ran into a friend of my ex whom I always thought was beautiful and tried not to fawn over him. My neck is sore from headbanging, which I somehow thought was both appropriate and a good idea. Stood in front of the speakers, so my ears are ringing. My legs are sore from jumping, and I don't regret a moment. The bands all put forth magnificent offerings, with even both openers being surprisingly quality. Speaking of which, I'm going to see if I can find their music online.

I can't wait until finals are just over.

Hook Suspension.

I couldn't find the exact screenshot that started my morbid fascination with the practice, but it was taken from  the movie The Cell that came out in the 90s. When the tortured serial killer lifted himself into suspension, he looked peaceful. It soothed the mortally wounded soul, and gave it respite. Those I've spoken to who have done it always waxed poetic about it. This is something I'll want to do soon. Until I can, I'll just look at it on the internet a lot.

Though, for my skin's sake, I ought to lose some weight first.