11:24 p.m. Wake Up Call

In and out of sleep until 10ish. Try to find it again, but my brain is wracked with scenes from the novel I woke up to yesterday morning. I lie in bed and let them play out in my mind. Question them. Turn them over. Is it too much like any other book I've read? Of course, aren't all plots derivative? It's the characters that drive the story, make it unique. I'm unconvinced. Still, the characters seem to live and breath in my head, having their own voices and desires.

I've been reading Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher. Not the way I usually read, devouring books in a day's time, but in the way I read now, quick, but slow, scanning pages, but only able to ever absorb a few pages at a time. This makes Marya's book perfect, as her chapters are often only a few pages at a time. Sometimes, it's not until I've read some of her book that I understand what is going on in my own head. For example, I am, and have been, screening my calls. Not because I don't want to talk to people, but because I can't. It's exhausting. Similarly, I don't think I'll be going out today. At best, I hope to take a shower. I haven't in days. And I'm not sure if I've missed my appointment with my psych.