The wonderful thing about great writers is that they can vocalize feelings that most people have problems feeling; they can analyze what most can only experience in passing. That analyzation is what frustrates me the most about writing, as I find myself turning to the same experiences to complement the new ones, like a chef always spicing in the same manner new dishes as he did the old.

Tonight I fell asleep trying to read News From Nowhere, and woke up after a couple hours. I screwed around for a while and did some homework, and then tried to get back to sleep. My window was open, and it’s been pouring rain, and the breeze on my face as I huddled under the covers was delicious. Cold, fresh, whatever adjective you want to apply to rain wind; it made me feel romantic. I wasn’t cold, but I couldn’t get to sleep.

I had a cigarette on the porch in an attempt to abolish or extend that romantic mood. I’m not sure if it worked.

The wind was pushing sheets of mist over the train tracks, and the sodium lamps that everyone seems to blare at night somehow fit the sky. There were no stars to drown, and that hazy, distant look the sky adopts here on dreary days reminds me of England. There are no real colors in the world, now, just yellow and shades of darkness.

I like the homogeneity of night. The days here are so filled with color and noise and movement, and the sky at night has no distance to it. I felt very solitary but not alone, which is oddly the opposite of lying in bed. The noticeable lack of another with me, and the notion that I am trying to go to sleep, something everyone else has done, leaving me in the dust, just serves as another reminder of my mediocrity at this whole college thing. I have yet to find myself, here.

I have yet to let go of myself, here.