Nighthawks

I got back from the diner a few minutes ago. There is little that is more calming than a cup of tea and some comfort food in a nearly empty diner on nearly empty streets. It's rare that New York City can be described as peaceful, but that's how it feels at 4am. There's a sense of intimacy between all who are awake, as though in some sense we're all different from the rest and we wonder what the other's story might be. I'm the sad, lonely woman sipping her tea and gazing at memories.

The idea of ending my life is so comforting, like a warm blanket. It means no more anxiety, fear, trembling eyes and limbs, broken trust, dishevelled hopes without expectation of fulfillment, loneliness.

There's a sign on the front door of this building. It politely asks that you use the door to the left. I don't know why it's there, maybe the door to the right gets flung open and hits the column and damages both. Usually I, like everyone else, ignore the sign. But when I'm feeling like this I don't. I follow simple directions, and if someone asks me for something I give it to them, if I can. I'm entirely passive.

Everything is exhausting. I'm going to try for sleep again, but last time I slept only a few hours before waking up and writing my previous entry, detailing my desire to jump out a window. Defenestrate myself. I've always liked that word, I learned it in sixth grade. Funny.

It's always clear to me when I'm being especially pensive. I stop wanting to use simple words, because they just don't say what I want them to. It makes the tone of my writing a lot different. I'm too insecure to try to be sophisticated with my wording, my grammar doesn't support it well and I end up sounding like a woebegone highschooler feigning misery.

I'm so young sometimes.