I'm awake and the clock reads 1:23.

1, 2, 3.

I am tired.

In college, I stopped keeping a regular journal because I realized I never wanted anyone to read the thoughts I had. Even now I think of burning old journals I've kept. The words frightened me then. And the thoughts overwhelm me now.

Writing had always been therapeutic for me in a way nothing else has. But I've had my privacy invaded a few times in the past and my safe haven between the pages instead became a traitor.

If I write, it is brief and superficial. I spend much of my writing time just contemplating what I am trying to express and still, everything I write is not what I meant to say.

It is so frustrating.

I just wrote about how I cannot write. And it is, again, not at all what I wanted to say.

To sum up what I wanted to write about: I am still looking for a hole my misshapen peg will fit in and I'm not very hopeful.