God, I’m fuck­ing exhausted. The day was a mix of ner­vous­ness. Partly shy, partly anx­ious, partly caf­feinated. People test­ing me, peo­ple appre­ci­at­ing me, peo­ple who call me brother.

As much as I’ve grown, as far as I’ve come, there are still things that are dif­fi­cult to do.

All I want to do now is write, but I’m too tired. Life is mov­ing at a quick­ened pace. I came here to vent, but all I’ve done is barely scratch the sur­face. Oddly enough, I still feel bet­ter. I think of call­ing John, but I hear him explain­ing my thoughts to me, in my head, and sud­denly, every­thing makes sense.

It’s like Louise and cuts. When get­ting a cut, her first instinct is that it hurts, but when she real­izes that they’re sup­posed to hurt (what I see as the nature of per­fec­tion), they cease to hurt.