Everything sounds much better at night, but in the daylight, not so much. Grand ideas of grandeur places that I have trouble expressing clearly on paper. When I play ideas out in my head now with a clearer state of mind, it's obvious that most of my writing (and my life in general) is a huge cliché. I'm worn out... boring and unoriginal. I loathe my attempts at being a creative mole. Underneath my act of sublimity, I'm just a lost girl in a maze of confusion still trying to figure out what I'm doing in an hour let alone plan for a life. That search for my "inner self" -- the ultimate key for a fulfilling life -- quite frankly seems like a bunch of B.S. I tried that search, it took me to Bangladesh for a year, through an engagement, (+) and (-) 15 pounds, a couple of month-long benders and smack back in the busiest city in the country. Yeah... I'm definitely still searching, so if anyone has suggestions on where I can find this "inner self"-- my bidding starts at $20 and not on Canal St. But what I have found is that there are definitely two types of people... fighters and flighters. I am a flighter. I run. I run fast the other way. I move everywhere and travel by myself to learn more about "me" when in reality, I just keep running farther and farther away from "me." I'll sign up for almost anything to keep myself occupied and my thoughts from searching "inside." I love escaping the simple moments and making everything just that much more complicated so I can deny the inevitable... that I am alone. Completely and entirely. It's my life and a life that I wanted. Last year I had the option of getting married, banishing my alone-ness for good. But of course, I didn't want to check that box just yet. Things had to get complicated. So now I run, do yoga, get stoned, get drunk and get high. I wish in that order... a vicious cycle that shakes my energy to the core. My flight days can't last for much longer -- I need a nap. Maybe that's why I'm always searching for truths in anything but myself. Horoscopes, psychics, customers at the bar, the bum that sits in front of the Church on 5th Ave and 9th st... anyone that can tell me the secret. I know it's there. I just can't hear you.