Conscious

Sometimes I open a blank post and I just let it sit in front of me for a while. What's my draft count? Thirty-nine. Forty if this ends up in my draft bowl. I have a lot sprinting across my brain right now. One thought: Write this post with  no paragraph breaks. No brain breaks. Just one big blob of written brain, smudged across the screen. Another thought: I wish they'd call me in to interview for that job. You know. That one. The one that would require relocating my location, for a minute. Oh hey, and you know that concert? The tickets-winning one? It's this week. On that one day of the week that is basically promising wet, colder weather. But am I complaining about that fact? Absolutely. My room is a mess. I detest it. I detest sleeping in after I sleep in. But my consciousness randomly attached itself to a sleeping schedule. That's nice. I want a bike. Sometimes I wonder who reads my blog. Is it just for my own therapeutic key-strumming? Either way, I enjoy it. I thoroughly love people. I love listening to conversations that don't belong to me. I love watching people who will carry no relevance as soon as they walk away from sight. But then. Other times I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut tight and pretend like I can tolerate people for a few moments longer. But then it's not pretending, and the tolerance works out. And then I just love people again. Twenty is such an awkward age. I don't know why squinting helps me see better. Habits are hard to break. Ornery should be awnry. Sometimes people don't like my obsessions. That just makes me stick to them, even more. April showers are lasting too long. This summer I will sit on a roof during the evening just for a new perspective.