It has been week five of year four. I skipped today's dinner and went for chocolate instead. 

I have been trying to study: I made time to read about airway and breathing, and today's deadline was about making a video on the demonstration of CPR and AED. I recorded it with my Dad's tripod, with a pillow, sweats drenching on my coat and the heel of my hands sore from doing five cycles back to back. I have not been sleeping well, and I wanted to write for some reason. 

I have been meaning to have my hair cut. The timing has never been right. Everyone is busy. I have never been as confused about how my time is spared: how can I have my life be about having good meals and sleeps. I have been watching things. 

There is this one friend I have not talked to in months. I remember what A used to say about this: that I am a friend she can come back to after a long time and still feels like we had only been a breath away from another conversation. I am curious as to what she is going to say after all this time. I can think of the way I will say anything to her: that we are both the type of person who are so easily overwhelmed, and being so aware of that similarity, we had drifted. I would imagine her laughing on the other side.

Am I lonely? My time is spent thinking about studying, trying to figure out how to finish my undergraduate thesis, trying to be as human as I possibly could while my valor is deteriorating, trying not to drive myself insane not being able to have the willingness to tell anyone of this. How would that even sound like? It has been a long, long time since I looked back to myself and say: I want to tell someone about this. If anything, I would rather have the insomnia deprived. 

For days as of late I have been trying to write and concluding: I cannot make this poetic. I cannot make this about beautiful persimmons and periwinkle skies. Everything feels like every little thing I have forgotten. It has been a long time coming having the capacity to forget to remember how sad I had been, but now I am only struck with emptiness, and every day I wake up with: is this still going on? This is another day? I cannot make this poetic. I cannot even make thinking about writing anything joyful, and I keep wanting to nap and cry. And even with that, I am still dead tired, calluses brimming with wrong, nails bruising with invisible purple. 

What would I start with if I am thinking of telling anyone of this? That I feel funny. My skin feels funny, my stomach fat feels funny, my perioral allergic reaction feels funny, my sleepiness feels funny. As far as I have come, this feeling cannot be undone. My absence from myself has blemished my days, now blurring together in a string of dreamless dreams. My limbs smell of rust and running and running. I am keeping busy with survival that at the end of this fatigue, this sleepwalking, this phlegm, I have been feeling my insides inflamed to redness. I have been bloodshot, in deluge, screaming endlessness. This has felt like a century to me. 

It is near 3 AM. Tomorrow is no more.