There was this type of warm embrace procrastination held me in. Like a plastic smile or a processed fast food burger, it was fake and chimerical, but it was something pleasant. It betrayed me, but if I let it be a surprise that way, it would be fully enjoyable. It was almost thrilling, putting something off. Your heart races like you're doing something wrong, but the truth is, you're not. Well, I suppose you are, but I am in denial here. There's no law against it anyway.

I don't usually do things wrong. Nothing I say that is wrong anyway. Maybe the occasional class-skipping or perhaps getting answers to the math homework from someone else, but nothing extreme. I'm not perfect, but I enjoyed maintaining my virginal image, almost. I was pretty much a normal person. Lazy, at times, and (as everyone) selfish, but then again, nothing against the law.

Staring up at my ceiling that night, I memorized it. The crevices of it soon formed into his features. I shut my eyes quickly, trying to ignore my heart racing from the mere thought of him. Damn it.

That's what I was procrastinating. Telling him. Telling him he was wonderful. But he must know, I told myself periodically. He must understand I love him insanely.

It was almost an obsession. On my mind twenty four seven was the burning passion eating away at my soul. I often imagined my personality would be licked blank if I let it go on. I tried to avoid it. MY BEST FRIEND, I repeated over and over, MY BEST GOD DAMN FRIEND. It was no use. I belonged to his shadow, stalking it.

I turned over, restlessly. The sheets hugged my legs affectionately, almost encouragingly. Sleep. Everything called me to sleep except my thoughts of him. He brought this insomnia about me, weaving him into my eyes and filling him into my heart. I hadn't slept in weeks.

Sleeping takes up most of our lives. We spent at least one third of our days sleeping. Resting to do nothing. It's a rather sick thought, wasting your life away resting up for it. I brought on a new motto in life: sleep when you're dead. You have you're entire life to live, just rest up for it later.

This from the girl who procrastinates on her emotions.

I could stand it no longer. I jumped out of bed, determined to do something; ANYTHING constructive. My cotton pajamas felt light and silky against my skin as I sat down at my desk. A breeze blew through the tree tops and into my room. I shivered slightly and embraced my bare arms. I gingerly opened my desk drawer, listening for anyone stirring.

What did I keep in my drawer? I never paid any attention to them after shoving my little hair clips and pens in them. I shuffled through it idly, not really searching for anything in particular. My tan hands came across a smooth notebook. I pulled it out, vaguely interested.

My journal. Well, not exactly a journal, but a blank notebook. I remembered vaguely, in a flurry of wrapping paper, responding with a polite smile and a minor thank you. I fingered it now, eyeing the blank pages.

I was never a writer. I didn't like to express my feelings on paper. I mean, people could READ my emotions and thoughts and theories and ideas and they wouldn't be my own anymore! But a journal. a journal became more sensible as the clock ticked that night. No one would read it. at least I prayed no one would read it. I opened to the first blank page and pulled out my fluffy blue pen.
Miranda Sanchez A girl, a dream, a hope.