I got a new night light, and I’m ridiculously excited about it. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a good nights sleep. I fantasize about it, but I don’t see it happening. I allot an amount of time to rest, and hope that I sleep. I know I would feel so much better, but there’s only so much I can do. Years and years of sleep disorder, it’s just one of those things that sucks.

I think I don’t sleep well here because I don’t feel safe. Instead of melting like butter at bedtime, I hit the hot frying pan and am done, but it’s not a comfortable feeling at all. Exhausted and passing out is not my preferred modus operandi. How lovely that the new house will have a dude in it- it stupidly makes me feel so much better; even though it’s a purely mental idea of a safety that doesn’t truly ever exist. Always be ready, no exceptions.

I’m painting my new space a color called “melted butter” because it’s the perfect color to chase away the blues and help me relax; creamy and relaxing, but yellow like sunshine, and happy without being hyper. My new house is super chill; I will have space and calm enough to write- NaNoWriMo is on. Writing is all I really want to do now. Well, and I hope to be able to paint again, along with the zillion other art projects I have going.

Thank god (goddess, FSM, deities of choice, energy, etc) for art. The creative process is still the best way to deal with everything. There are so many things that are simply beyond words. And dammit, I would give a lot for a safe sunny spot to take a long nap.

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