I am not an insomniac. I am a life-enthusiast. I do not drink tea and rub my temples, groaning as the clock ticks by. I smile myself to sleep, looking forward to tomorrow so much that I wish I could just blink and it would be there.

I was not always this way. I was once your average pre-teen wastoid, griping about my new body and my newly annoying parents. But being fifteen suits me much better. I have friends, I have a boyfriend, I get along with my parents (usually). And even if we can't afford a brand-new car or a trip to Europe, I have almost everything a girl could want.

Do you know what I have always wanted? A soulmate. There are two kinds of soulmates, and I think I have both. First, however, it is important to understand the difference betweeen a great friend and a soulmate. My best friend in the world is not my soumate. Neither is the girl who I am nearly identical to. We are inseperable… but different at the core.

Rather, my soulmate (of the first kind) is someone I've become closer to of late. She is just like me in so many ways, and we understand eachother. It's not our friends or schedules that define us, it's our choices. That's what makes her my soulmate- we're kindred in thought and spirit. We are both quirky and intelligent, we both obsess about strange things and we both have a major sweet tooth. We often finish eachother's sentences simply because we know exactly how the other one is feeling.

There is another kind of soulmate, the kind who opens up your heart. Nobody is perfect, but this person is perfect for me. We cherish and understand and love eachother, and I put him before me and want to protect him because he is so good, and kind. When I am with him, I feel complete, like I've found my other half. I'm blessed enough to have that kind of soulmate too.

It's funny how even when you love someone so much, you still feel the need to test them. There is a blatant and unrelenting well of insecurity deep within me that takes offhand jokes seriously and needs constant reassurance. I would like to be able to say that I care absolutely nothing of what others think of me; unfortunately, I am too scarred to say this truthfully. I have to test those I love the most, clinging to them and asking them if they love me and why. And then other times, I push them away and tell them to leave me alone, secretly desperately wishing that they will ignore my pleas and come comfort me. I hate that I crave this kind of reassurance, but it's ludicrous how a person can look in the mirror and see the truth and still manage to distort it.

Enough about image. People today are way too focused on image, myself included. Let me think of something happier. Ok, what makes me happy? The musty smell of the binding of a book… falling asleep… stretching my pointe shoe into a perfect grand batma… cuddling… eating raw cookie dough… listening ti Dashboard Confessional at that volume that's loud enough to drive my mother crazy, but not loud enough to make my ears bleed.

Today, or yesterday, rather, (it's 1 AM) is my friend's virthday. He lives in Florida. I tried calling him, but he's away- I'll try him again tomorrow. Today is his first day as an official teenager. Good luck, dear friend. May your zits be few and your laughs be many.

God, I miss him so much it stings sometimes. The pain is less sharp and frequent than it used to be, but it's still extant and always will be. I miss his parents and his brother too- I miss them all with a bittersweet thirst that is seldom quenched. I can't wait till this summer.

There are pictures of them on my wall. There are pictures of everyone on my wall. I keep them right by my bed to combat lonely tears. It works suprisingly well.

I love the thrill of getting pictures back.Of puncturing the little yellow sticker and opening the envelope and seeing the split-second memories I captured. There are so many small thrills in life. Like opening a new magazine. The anticipation is better than reading it itself. It's like I'm sure that among the lip gloss articles and the horoscopes and the tacky poetry is the answer to life. Sick, I know it.

Another small thrill I have is buying shirts (Geez, am I the weirdest person ever or what?). My favorite shirt is just usually my newest one. I wear that brand-new shirt for a few weeks, sure it looks good, until the novelty wears off. Then I go buy another one. I need to realize that a $15 piece of fabric will not bring me happiness. I need therapy. Shopaholics Anonymous, anyone?

I forgot something on the list of things that make me happy. Flowers. I adore dendrobium orchids, but white roses are my favorites. I told my boyfriend (my soulmate) this today in the grocery store where they had flowers in a cooler. You can bet he'll remember it, too. He remembers everything I say and do and wear. It sounds creepy but it's kind of neat actually. We'll be having a conversation and he'll remind me of something I said in passing like six months ago. The boy is an information sponge.

God, he is so amazing. He gets hotter every time I look at him. He has these devastatingly blue eyes and curly blonde hair and he's warm and soft and smells like soft flannel. Not to mention he's the nicest, most sensitive person I've ever known. Don't even get me started.

I am lucky to be so happy. There is so much sad in the world. For example, my best friend's mother is dying of cancer. Life is not gair. No one should go that way, especially not a wonderful woman with a family who needs her. Don't get me started on that, either. It's depressing as hell.

This is the witching hour, when all of my past ghosts come out to haunt me. It only happens in the middle of the night when I think of sad things. There are sad things in my life too… things brought on by myself. Things I am only beginning to admit to myself. Memories locked so far into my brain because the pain is too real, pain that is so hard to talk about or even think about. But I'm trying to talk about it, I really am. Sometimes it just seems like no one wants to listen. I am everyone's confidante, there advice girl. I am no Peter, but I am a rock. This has many advantages but one major drawback- no one can stand to see their rock break down and cry. It has been so, so long since I have cried from anything except phsical pain (Lord knows I have my fair share of that, too.) Writing is my rock- it is always there and will never turn away from me when I need it.

Decisions are so hard to make, you know? Like right now, I'm trying to decide whether to quit dance class. Dance should not be about schedulesand rules and guilt. I am a fifteen-year-old burnout. Dance is part of my soul, and The Man is trying to squash that out of me! But God, how I'll miss that torture if I quit. I can practice at home but there's something marvelous about putting on a leotard and stretching and spinning with a dozen or so other dancers that you've known most of your life. But then… it's lost it's magic, too. There is no freedom or art, only pressure and choreography that I don't like. A piece of me will die if I quit but hopefully a new one will be born, too.

An hour's gone by, and my eyelids are beginning to droop. Finally, I'm tired. This is no easy task to accomplish if you are a life-enthusiast.