I'm in this for the ice cream.

Well, here I am on an insomniac high. By this I mean that it's not one of those dreadful "I'm so tired" insomnias (The last one was. I privatized that blog entry. It was kinda dark.). It's a simple "there's lots to do and I might as well do it" insomnia.

My brain shuts down a little on these nights; I keep seeing ghosts and things (real or imaginary. . .who knows? it's always been like this.), but there is a calm created. I can focus very mindfully on one thing at a time and really accomplish actually FOLDING laundry correctly and spending an hour at the grocery store really LOOKING for new stuff, interesting stuff, and things-you-can-afford-but-think-cost-too-much-for-what-they-are that are on sale for what they might actually be worth to you. And writing appallingly long sentences with ridiculous strings-of-hyphenation.

I think I know why I can't sleep. It's because I have too many secrets.

There is a magic to secrets, I think. They may have my heart or mind or whatever-you-like on overload, but it's a mysterious overload. It's a little painful, but also very serene and. . .knowing, I guess. Which makes sense.

Holding other people's secrets is something I do well. My only trouble is that sometimes I forget--I do not wish to forget, and tonight I have too much information to process. It was a great weekend in relationship and friendship ville.

I always remember when reminded.

I have some secrets of my own brewing. Worrisome little nuggets I'm learning about myself. They're grating on me. I'll probably get it all out into my writing one night soon. Then I'll be able to look at it and say "it's there. it's not in me anymore, it's there, sewn into this play where no one will notice it but me."

I'm going to Walgreens.