but what are my intentions with this?

Scalding showers at three a.m. are ineffective attempts to calm my happily unsettled mind and clean and soft from the shower I play punk rock pirate dress up and wear the red and white stripped underwear outside of my ridiculous skull and cross bones leggings. Black knit arm socks and bare feet, the crazy illuminated in the teased hair, unkempt yet squeaky as I run my hands through it. I will look like a disaster in the morning, but tonight I am a character and I create my own story book, Gillian had her pigs, the princess her paper bag, my feet stick to coins as the soles darken with unknown dirt and I wonder if I will ever find rest in my restless head. This is my reality, frosted with fiction and imagination. I am slowly learning to be an adult, but I am running away from the day I go to bed at sensible hours and a cease to be, at heart, five years old. I shouldn't write after midnight, but life is too perfect and transient. It needs to be documented in precise moments.

I'll make lists and stack books and hang towels and fold clothes, and when I wake up I will be active, organized and adult, but I'll probably still wear the punk rock underwear under my jeans and smile as I skip around Halifax they'll never know my secret.