Don't Blog Drunk. . .(Or, in my case, Tired)

It's true. I'm tired. Only got four hours of sleep last night, because I couldn't fall asleep. Kept jolting awake. And I had to go back to the Franklin Graham Festival after church, so no nap. In any case, I probably shouldn't be blogging right now. I should probably go to bed. Heh.

Funny what exhaustion does to a person. Sure, you're tired. But I mean internally. In your head. It makes you think. It makes you feel different, in the right circumstances, where temperature is concerned. There's a cool breeze blowing through my window that is opened just a crack. I have this bittersweet, melancholy feeling in my chest, and there are faint tears in my eyes. I don't know why. My mind is wandering, thumbing through possibilities. In my mind I'm continuously praying (which, I know, is a good thing). I wonder. About different things. There's a distant reminder that today *since it's after midnight here* is the first day of fall (yay!) and that the fair , which coincides with halloween, will be here before you know it (in approximately one month and one week). After that is Thanksgiving, then Christmas. . .I remember when the years didn't roll by so fast.

I miss being a kid.

But I think about the future too, wondering, waiting, praying. Wondering when God will send the right man my way, wondering if I've already found him. I often grow weary of waiting. I know he's out there somewhere. I just don't know where. Maybe I don't pray about it as much as I should. I don't pray for myself as much as I should, and perhaps there lies part of the problem. And I don't pray for him, whoever and wherever he is, as much as I ought to. My heart aches. Look, I don't expect a fairy tale. I know love and courtship and marriage takes work, and I'm willing to work for it.

Oh, I am so tired right now, and if I go any further I will sit here and cry until my face is red and blotchy, and I have gotten the hiccups. I miss people and dogs who are no longer here. I long to grow and to heal. I'm just afraid that if I stop hurting, I'll start forgetting. . .