Today I woke up after three hours of sleeping, at about 6 a.m., which is sort of weird.

The weird part is just begining :
I fell asleep again soon afterwards, after having a glass of Pepsi with Lemon Juice, and had smoked 2 cigarettes.
I dreamt I was in a school yard, with people I know. We had just finished classes, and were heading home. It was winter, and there was lots of fresh white snow on the ground.
Then, I guy I know - a boy from college - started to hit on me. I usually detest when somebody does that, but this time I permitted it, mostly because I find him quite attractive, even in real life.
I open here an explanation for studying it later : HE, is not the one I care deeply for, rather a ''most popular&trendy guy'' in college. He also confessed to me, recently, that he has become infatuated with me.

Then I eluded him, and headed home, along with 2 of my girl - classmates. We decided to stop at one's house, for a hot drink.
There I had come upon her cat. And a good part of my dream involved my fascination for her cat, her blue-green eyes, and her fur.
Her eyes and fur could change color, becoming both lime-green, as well as baby-blue ; her fur was either coal-black, or lavish, imperial grey.

Today I woke up at 6 a.m. after 7 hours of sleep. I don't remember one fragment of detail about any dreams I had because I slept well. It's probably better to not be tired the whole day than to remember a stupid dream and be tired.

The whole purpose of getting up so early is to have the house to myself. My parents are already up watching television. This puzzles me.

Maybe I am dreaming right now. How do I know this isn't a dream. It sure feels like one. It kinda hurts when I pinch myself, but one time I had a dream where something hurt as well.

What if my whole life was a dream? I know this kind of idea has been said before many times, thought before countless more, but what if it was really me and that is why everyone seems to think the same? Are we all the same person just expressed in different bodies?

Wait. Back up. I don't like to think about stuff like this. It frightens me to question the things that keep me grounded. I'll just think about shallow, happy ideas.

Today, I woke up at 7:00 am after roughly seven hours of sleep. I'm going to make progress, I swear to myself that I am.

My room is going to get clean... Dammit! I'm going to start with all the clothes. Clothes I don't wear anymore and don't want, I'm donating. Clothes I don't wear but want to keep because they mean something (FCA shirt, etc) I'm going to pack away. Jeans, and t-shirts, I will fold up in dresser drawers, and work/dress clothes I will hang in the closet along with jackets and bathrobes, etc.

I figure once the clothes are semi-permanently organized, the rest of my stuff will come together easier.

On an unrelated subject, May 22 of this year I got my first haircut since July 2002. My hair is short, and it is freaky. When I got out of the shower that first day, I put on my shirt and went to pull my ponytail out of the back of the shirt, and the ponytail wasn't there...

I'm used to it now, but I'm going to grow my hair long again, I think. I sort of just wanted to start over. When I grew it out the first time, I was 16 and much less ... experienced... compared to myself now. It's sort of like cutting the ties of my past, and growing new memories, or something, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I've been away for a good while. How are you people?

Today, I woke up in the dark to some noise in the background. I fell asleep again. I did this twice that I recall. I woke up to faded light on the floor and then I fell asleep again. I woke up to a knock on my door telling me to get up. I rolled back over and buried my face in the pillow. I got up.

I hate sleeping. I hate sleeping because I never feel rested. I dream. Every night I dream and I always dream in color. I hate my dreams. I used to love them but now I hate them because when I sleep I just want to sleep I don't want to disappear off into other worlds. Today, I woke up despondent and tired. My first thought was of him. The next was how easily I could kill myself with the drugs in my house. The third thought was wondering if the second thought was an extension of my dream. My fourth thought was horridly realizing that the previous three thoughts were all somehow connected.

Today, I couldn't remember if I had a fear of moths, if I had dreamed about of a fear of moths of if I had read about it. I am sick of being unable to separate the three realities.

I think that when I live too much in my sleep my days become washed out. My days are boring and my nights are vivid. I want it to be the other way round.

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Day 6835 | Day 6846 | Day 6886

Today he woke up at 8am after 5 hours of sleep, eyes heavy; legs restless. He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom down the hall, heels dragging across the carpet. Shit. Shower. Shave. His hand dragged the too-old razor across his face, his skin pink from the hot water and the dull blades. Scrape, rinse. Scrape, scrape, scrape, rinse.

His mind was elsewhere today; his body acting autonomously. The blades scratched a swath of hair clear on his left cheek. Scrape—What did I dream about?—rinse. Shorn whiskers tumbled free from the blades and slowly drifted down to the bottom of the soapy water in the sink. Did I dream about—?

Twisted bodies, entwined legs, skin glistening with sweat.
Hair, lips, tongue, fingers, moaning, grunting, breathing!

Scrape: rinse, rinse. His right hand moved across his face and over to the other cheek, left hand reaching around his neck to draw the skin tight before the blades. Scraaaaaaape. His mirror image began to appear more boyish, each stroke of the razor adding more innocence. Rinse. Scrape—

Biking on the sidewalk; sometimes jogging, sometimes skateboarding. Suburbia.
Turn around: dark cloud. Go. Beginning to move. Faster. Must go faster.
Sky darkening, pulse racing, legs pumping, quickly now!
Pavement softens; like running through water, slower, slower.
Must go faster! MUST GO FASTER! Lightning bolt! Burning eyes!
Stop.

—rinse. Lips and chin now. He jutted out his jaw and contorted his face. Scrape, scrape: with the grain. Scrape, scrape: against. Rinse. The lips were always the tricky part for him; trying to get a close shave but not so close as to cut them. He pursed his lips as the water ran off the blades into small streams; tendrils of foam probing for a way between his lips. He delicately put the razor to his skin. scrape, scrape. Rinse. He paused for a moment, staring at the layer of foam that had formed in the sink.

Rope.
Bottle.
Gun.

The last part now, the neck. He tilted his chin upwards and started drawing the razor head upwards in long strokes. Scraaaaaape. He felt it glide over the skin. Scraaaaaape. The razor gently tugged as it rode over his larynx. Scraaaaaa—sting, grunt, curse. Three parallel cuts appeared on his jawline and began to ooze tiny beads of blood. He set down the razor and stared into the now-fogged mirror. He tilted his head, letting the droplets run together. Drip, it fell into the sink, staining a small bit of foam pink. Drip, swirls of red appeared in the water like food coloring in a child's science experiment. Drip, it splattered on the chrome of the tap.

Today he woke up at 9am after 6 hours of sleep. What did I dream about?