192 pages of my life

I’m a man of few words.  That suits me just fine.  I read a lot to make up for the quiet.  But, it’s always loud in my head.  I’d rather find a way to stop my brain from thinking so much than sleep.  Sleep has been useless for the past two months.  I’m always tired when I wake up no matter how long I sleep for, and I keep having the most random and bizarre dreams that a Hollywood screenwriter would kill to think of.  I’ve had this small Moleskine that I use to write my thoughts and feelings in.  It’ll be two years old in January.  I think I’ll have filled it by then.  I just randomly write.  No dates, an empty line that signifies the end of an entry, and sentences jump back and forth from one premise to another.  This is pretty much an example of an entry, although they’re never this long.  I haven’t been writing as much as I usually do, I’ve been trying to get through the massive stack of books that I haven’t read yet.  I’m protective of my books.  I don’t like recommending books that I love, and don’t bother asking me to borrow a book because I’m going to say no.  I said yes, once, and now there are four books which I’m probably never going to see again.  I’ve been thinking of starting another blog, and posting the entries.  Although, I doubt anyone would be interested in reading them.  I love to sit and write about other people, a bit like Sartre in ‘Nausea’.  I wonder what’s going on in their life at that moment, and what they’re thinking.  I’ve been wanting to write more stories than poetry, but I just haven’t had it in me.  Maybe someone will come along soon and change that.