Creativity is welling up inside of me, emotions yearning to be understood wait impatiently to feel themselves, tangible as words in ink, laid down steadily on the soft bed of paper. My journal will understandingly envelope each letter, and translate my emotions into a language my brain will understand, thereby satisfying this urge, this need � my subconscious needs release. Like a whale, it can only stay submerged beneath the surface for so long before the urge to breathe fresh air and be seen overtakes it, forces it up and out of the water, into the sun but for a moment.

Enlightenment. The feeling of light upon those usually so-dark places? We�ll see. I have a feeling I�ll be doing more than analyzing sentence structure in class tonight. I am tired. I am excited and happy and busy and contented and overwhelmed and pensive and oh, so very tired. I�ve been quick to tears the last few days. This means I�ve reached my limit, this means I need to take a step back into myself and figure some things out before showing up again.

Have you ever just �not wanted� to think? Yet when you try to distract yourself, the thoughts come anyway, pushing and prodding and nudging and nagging... this and that, need and want, do and task, what and when, the voice, the incessant inner voice that we all have, in hyper-speed, on crack, insatiable for attention. When my voice overwhelms me, when it is louder than my logic, when I cannot answer it fast enough, I scream internally in frustration.

Aside from this inner banter, turmoil, whatever you want to call it, there are many things that I�m looking forward to. My friend, Carolyn, is in LA right now, working on a project for VH1, and she�s coming down this weekend to hang out with us. I last saw her in New York, when M.s. and I went on our little jaunt to the East. This Friday, a gallery opening, I�ll bring her along. See some friends, and relax. Relax and enjoy myself. Enjoy myself, and perhaps, do a little catching up with �me� while I�m at it.

But it�s only Tuesday. We�ll see what the week will bring. The office next to mine smells like a mixture of dirty shoes, wet dog, tobacco, and shit. The two people sitting in there -- door closed, window closed, no hygiene or ventilation, a bad combination � are physically, mentally, and emotionally repulsive to me. It�s all I can do not to blatantly grimace when I interact with either one of them. And yet, they keep insisting I interact. My face remains stoic with its lack of expression, but by the time I reach my car I imagine an eruption of contorted expressions attacking my visage at once. I honestly hope I don�t scare the bank teller.

Perhaps I can remain impassive until I reach the freeway. My resolve weakens with every passing minute.

-Barbarella

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