Thirtieth of January, Past Midnight

I'm confused.
I suppose some thinking would help clear up the thoughts in my head, but the problem is, I don't know what I'm confused about.
So here I am, restlessly pacing in my room, thinking of things to do, things to help me get rid of the feeling.
I can't continue reading The Season of Mists because I know I am currently oscitant and probably won't pay any attention to the details.
I think of reading a different book, and I look behind me to see which would be good. Comics? Nah. I am not in the mood for humor. A novel? Sure, but what? I've read all of my books at least twice. An ebook? Considerable... but no. My eyes need a break from the glow of the monitor.
In front of me is an old, tattered book, worn down by me and my sister's hands, worn down by time, worn down by use. Mythology. I've checked up a couple of things while reading the Sandman. Hm. I should read this again. I open the book, feeling the brittle pages. Yes. Maybe I'll read it. But I need to finish this journal first.
A sigh.
A yawn.
Maybe I should just sleep. It would do me well to get some much needed shuteye, but I'm afraid that once I lie down my bed, I'll start thinking.
Thinking....
Thinking....
Thinking about something that should never be talked about.


Maybe I'm not so confused after all.