
It's 4:25am on Saturday morning. I cried-- I HATE crying, particularly by myself...if that makes sense. Tears are impossible, it's like they fill up inside you, then they spill over and out your eyes..down your cheeks..and back into your body--just to sting your lips. The more your try and fight them--the more futile it is. Like I said, I hate crying.

When it comes time to go to sleep...when the city becomes quiet...and i'm alone--my thoughts keep me awake. I try and push them back, but in their place is insomnia. Miserable, bittersweet insomnia. Night Owls. Is there something more emotionally plundering to the name? I haven't wanted to write about this...because this is something i'm not proud of, something about me I do not want to own, or maybe something I don't even understand.
A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world,
The company of my misery is found in several pages, divided into chapters, reawakened at the end of another book.

Lately, i've immersed myself in Twilight and now i'm onto the follow-up New Moon. I was hoping to be comforted by the epic romance of Edward and Bella..but so far in the second novel i've just been reading about a character's loneliness that mirrors my own, thus..200 pages later i'm still unsettled and disappointed with my misery's company.
Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.