Part One

I have a terrible yearning to be constantly poetic. I don't want to write anything down that isn't eloquent or meaningful or trying at least to communicate something worth reading at all.
And so, I don't write.
Lately I have gone through a period of complete blankness.
I'm already getting frustrated because I have so much I have to explain, and it doesn't come out the way I would like it to. I feel as if I don't possess the words to give a proper explanation of this given situation and it leaves me so frustrated that I don't write anything down at all, because I want it to be "right" when it comes out. I want it to do it justice.
I simply don't know where to start. Maybe what I'll do is break up the individual pieces and write about them separately on different days until I have poured out all that I have wanted to say in a clear and concise manner.
It is 12:32 AM, which leads into my first explanation.

I can't recall the last time I slept in my bed. I've been sleeping on the couch for the last two weeks, I'd say. I do try. I lay in my bed, at the time one would expect me to get to sleep. 11:00 or so.
One of my bedside table lights stays on. The one to my left, if I'm facing the ceiling. Often I can't bring myself to turn it off. I think. I get scared of waking up in the morning, for what reason I do not know. I toss and turn. I hate the silence. I reach for my phone, also my resource for music. Anything calming. It is on for only a few seconds before I feel overwhelmed by the lyrics; they enter my ears and pulsate and I stress because I can't think and follow along with the lyrics at the same time. I turn it down. I can't hear anything. I hate the silence. I turn it up. Too loud. I turn it off completely.
Back to silence. I hate the silence. It gets later. I am scared of going to school the next day. The temptation of not going rises in my chest. It goes away when I begin to stress about the consequences of not going. I hear the automated voice on the answering machine in my head. I wonder what I would tell my teachers if I missed it. What about university? All the absences?
The thoughts snowball and I wonder what I really want, anyways. Is it university? I would love to travel for months and months and write and then come home and lay on something soft, feeling like I hadn't sat down in years. I force the thoughts away.
University.
I decide I have to go. The cycle continues. Scared to go. Can't go. Have to go, have to go, have to go.
My thoughts are overwhelmingly violent. More crowd in.
Turn the right bedside light on. Get out of bed. Turn the ceiling lights on. The shadows are smothered by the brightness. Stare down at my bed. Can't sleep here. I plant my socked in the carpet and lean back to rip the white covers from my bed; sling them over my shoulders. A pillow is grabbed and I squeeze my blanketed self through the door into the hallway, shutting the door behind me. It seems to be a feeble and childish attempt to leave the thoughts in the room; lock them in. I imagine words and worries floating slowly through the air behind the door. They are grey and smokey and thick. Ghosts. This image frightens me and a new, irrational fear of my room sets in. I walk-run through the hallway towards the living room.