I think I just blinded myself by sitting down for a three-hour practice test.

I mean, of course I had to do it, because I need to know how I’ll do on the real thing once it’s happening, but it sucked, because I panicked when I was doing the no-calculator math portion, and I am pretty sure I got a ton of the questions wrong, which is embarrassing, because I got every single one of them right the first time I took a practice test. I think I’ll do worse on this one than the first one, because my mind decided shut down. It was all power off and I couldn’t make sense of what I was even reading.

It’s FINALLY sunny today, after more than a week of continuous rain and serious flooding in our province. The rain was so depressing I didn’t even want to get up in the morning. Which actually is kind of a regular occurence because I basically never want to get up in the morning unless there’s something really fun to do–which there normally isn’t, around here.

But I have been watching House, which is an awesome show because House and Wilson are awesome even when Cameron is not (I’ve never liked her character, for some reason).


And I have been writing, writing a lot more in the way of fiction than before. There used to be a time when I could open a new Word document every day–when I could do nothing but write, for hours and hours. When I could write pages of things that didn’t matter. Lines and words blurring together, while I kept writing. Now it’s hard. I write by hand because it’s both easier and harder, and sometimes I just write the same sentences

over and over

and over

and over

and over again

Because my head is going to explode if I don’t write something, but I have no idea what to say. Or I know how to say it, but not to write it. I can think it, I can imagine it, but I can’t make it real. I can’t put my pen to the paper and make it exist somewhere that is not my own brain. So I’m trying very, very hard to make it happen now, and sometimes I hate the fact that my handwriting turns ugly and cramped, seizing up like a trainwreck of letters, but I keep writing, and then I can breathe easy.

I wrote five pages of the same thing the other day–a scene that’s been spinning in my head for a while. (It started when I thought up this sentence while I was trying to sleep: She was hesitantly turning the biscuit over in her fingers, as if unsure what to do with it.) That’s definitely an improvement, because for a while, I couldn’t write half a page of a single story. I don’t know how people can sit down and finish something several thousand pages long–I don’t know how people can sit down and keep writing a single fanfiction for years, and not stop. It must be that there’s something very wrong with my ability to write, because I sound like a twelve-year-old, and everything that comes out doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t mean anything at all.


I had a dream about a couple the other day. It was a black-and-white dream, because I dreamed that it was night-time, and I was in their bedroom like I was watching a movie. The moon was shining in on them, all pale and luminous, and there were these long, silent shadows rising on the wall where there wasn’t anything to create them. He–a man, someone I don’t know–was laying on the edge of the bed, on his side, staring out the open window, and she–I don’t know who she was either–was still asleep. He was supposed to be holding her, and I knew this because there seemed to be a silent narration in my head–he was supposed to be holding her, but he’d let go to lay in the space where the moonlight was falling. He was feeling the light, feeling it all the way in his bones, and he thought that his scars were uglier like that, darker under the light, darker when they weren’t in shadows. Then she woke up, because “she could feel his lack of warmth”, that was what the silent narrator said, and she put a hand between his shoulderblades without speaking. He told her what he was thinking, in a scratchy, quiet voice, after a long, long silence. “I’m not good enough for you.” She didn’t answer at first, but then they talked some more, and everything they said made perfect sense, like it was a scripted dialogue, like I was reading a book, or watching a movie while simultaneously being in the movie. Like I was in a Pensieve. They didn’t do anything but talk, so it didn’t feel strange, but it really was strange, because they were talking and having an actual conversation. People in my dreams don’t normally talk so coherently. Most of the time, they make no sense whatsoever, and neither do I. And almost every time I dream, I’m taking part in it–I’m active, I’m the “main character”, and I’m doing things. I’m not just a bystander. But in this dream, I was just watching. Not speaking, not moving, just watching.

And it was one of the best dreams I’ve ever had simply because it had coherent dialogue. Cryptic at several points, but it felt like it had some profound meaning that I should tap into once I woke up. Most of my dreams are all action and bright colors and strange places and tall people, and running and jumping and shouting and moving. The other day I had a dream that someone grabbed me from behind and tried to drag me into a bathroom. I screamed and escaped, and ran into a man’s office, and told him what happened. I was crying too hard, crying too hard to breathe, and I just fell over on his pale green carpet. The funny thing is, I saw myself curled on the floor like I was someone else, someone standing over my body. Like I wasn’t me. That was a horrible dream. But it was also good, because I managed to escape being hurt.


This has been all over the place. My brain is scattered from the practice test, which I am sure I did poorly on, and from the lack of sleep. I went to bed at one in the morning yesterday…or rather today. I like sleeping late, one time I stayed up until four a.m. and woke up at nine, but I suppose doing it regularly isn’t healthy at all.

I originally wanted to write about how laughably beautiful Chinese translations of certain songs are, because I read the translation for Zayn’s “PILLOWTALK” and it made me laugh because it was so…”poetic” and careful not to say anything overtly sexual. But I’m tired today, so maybe tomorrow, or someday soon. Someday I have to write about my favorite characters (there’re a lot of those) or some of my mother’s dreams. She has prophetic dreams (I know, it sounds crazy, but I don’t know how else to put it) and I thought I should write them down somewhere.


Have a good Thursday, and stay safe.

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