i guess it's been awhile

Today, I woke up before my alarm went off, despite the fact that I stayed awake until after 4am watching _Six Feet Under_. I've been haunted by strings of nightmares for awhile. A few weeks ago, I had a horrible case of insomnia, and I'm not sure whether it started because of the nightmares or if the nightmares started with or after it. All I know for sure is that they haven't left, even though I started being able to sleep again.

This morning, I feel like a failure, despite immediately beginning to take care of little things that need done, despite the fact that my christmas tree finally came down yesterday and I have a clear view into my living room from my kitchen again. I've regained space, but at the same time, the adjective "clear" is misleading. I should say "wide" view since the view is much wider, but “clear” is entirely inaccurate since from here I can see: my kitchen table which includes: the laptop I write on, paper bags and prescription bottles, dirty cups, piles of papers and books; the other chair that is covered in sweaters and t-shirts and a black garbage bag I never bothered to fill up yesterday; a laundry hamper half full of clothes, two garbage bags full of towels I still need to give to a friend, the christmas tree ornaments on a pile on the floor, various board games and random junk in small piles on the floor; my great grandmother’s armoire with a pot of dead flowers, dozens of cds both in and out of their cases, cd wallets, books, my ceramics I threw myself, and other various knickknacks piled haphazardly; the sterlite container of old photo albums and yearbooks piled that I shoved between the book shelf and love seat and managed to pile more board games, Rose’s books and Joe’s hat on; the loveseat itself with papers and books; the coffee tables with pencils and hand weights and baby wipes and who knows; the other sterlite container with my clean comforter Daniel washed for me weeks ago; throw pillows o the floor. All of this shit that is my life and my apartment, strewn about, a mess, coated in dust and draped with long blond hairs. Why do I own so much when I need so little? Why are all these possessions covering every surface of my home instead of put away neatly somewhere?

I look around and tell myself other things are more important: my writing, the course I’m taking, the paper I need to write for it, my fellowship applications, sending out work to journals, my thesis, my once again one-hundred and ninety pound body, a belly that rolls over itself gleaming white. But I know the truth that it’s all extremely important, and I’m always failing on more fronts than not.