I've over shot. Why do I always overshoot?
I'm at 15 pages, needing to wrap up. But it's also 2 a.m. again, and I'm wiped out, and I'm not ready for Ancient Greek and the quiz on Book III of the Republic, and I haven't started my philosophy paper, and I'm writing incredibly moving passages that make focusing on anything else a challenge.
I'm meeting with my Creative Non-Fiction professor tomorrow at noon, because she believes my first piece is rolling toward polish, which means publication, which means this kind of writing is what I was always meant to do. It's exciting, and also draining.
I'm all over my childhood and the parts of it that haunt me most. I hadn't planned on visiting these places, but there is a purge going on that can't be sopped up with anything but pages.
I go back and read the tidal force of language that somehow comes from me and I am caught in waves of emotion. Tapping the source saps everything I've got, but it's like a drug reaction that no mountain, no dry ground can produce.
I'm finding the honesty of my father. Let me leave it at that for the evening.