in that wild insomnia, i wrote a raw short story that my professor really liked. and that story ate at me. i couldn't put it down, i couldn't stop thinking about it. i kept drawing it up again, rereading it and trying to figure out a way to build and improve it - it wasn't until i spoke to my professor that i knew what was wrong. still, i couldn't sleep. then i talked to a friend who broke down how internally the story related to me. then i started to get obsessed with connecting the dots. reading in between the lines to see what kind of answers i could find, but nothing worked. nothing until i opened a page and just started writing again. i rewrote the story rape blossom into one complete short story and now there's a larger sense of peace. for now. i think i've sated this demon. i might be good to sleep for a few days now. or maybe one more night's worth of writing and then it'll leave me alone. but let me sleep. i can't think of another story. and they're all set in cars right now. i don't know if i can submit both pieces in my portfolio like that. anyway... im such a liar. i don't have the guts to tell either of them. or anyone. or even myself, i think because there's so many mental blocks that i don't understand what is bothering me. there's obviously something on my mind that only the metaphors in fiction can release...
