(And I don't do terribly well with the reality of it, either.)

          I can happily sleep almost anywhere. Floors, couches, sitting up at tables. I know people who, upon their first night sleeping somewhere new (a hotel, a dorm room, a new house, etc), toss and turn and are struck with insomnia, longing for their own familiar bed. I've never experienced this. Sleep is no big deal; I don't feel vulnerable or anything, don't need that comfort and safety of familiarity (although I do find that I miss my pillow when I'm without it).
          But last night, my first night in the campus apartments, I understood the feeling.
          I was lying in bed, physically tired from moving my belongings (which, though considerably fewer than yesterday, still come to an embarrassingly high amount). I'd been reading, and was drowsy, but I didn't want to rouse myself to reach the two feet to turn off my lamp. The small action would wake me up, and I could tell that I'd spend a few hours contemplating the ceiling. I'd get to listening to myself breathe and feeling my heart beating in my chest and hearing every move of the building.
          I felt almost feverish. Distances swam a little, and I lost depth perception. The ceiling is so high in my room - I couldn't touch it if I stood on my desk. Back in the dorms, it's within arm's reach when I stand on my chair. I was lying there, and it felt like a hotel. My bed was too low, the proportions were off, and I realized that I was missing the sound of elevators going all night. I guess that's what keeps me up at night - not noise, or light. But silence.
          I guess I don't do that spectacularly when under the illusion of isolation.



          I realize that it's been a long time since I've written anything. A personal essay, a story. Something self-contained.
          "A story, for example, something that could never happen, an adventure. It would have to be beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence." Sartre.
          Something to shoot for.