At the end of this early October day

Tonight I am tired, and putting off homework to write instead. A near tie, it lags just behind talking with my close friends and dearly loved ones as the foremost action I can take in order to screw my head on strait.
Tonight I am tired, and already logged well over my due 20 hours at the church, and am beginning to fall behind in my school work -tomorrow I shall leave my internship with the Children's ministry early, and play a game of catch up with the classes I am doing poorly in.
Just last year I learned the pleasure of being a good student for the first time. To see my grades hurt now is salt in the eyes and teeth gritted tight.
Tonight we had our first Discovery Village Family Experience (DVFX) of the year. I had a speaking role this time round, and felt the thrills that only theater can afford. Oh, how I miss the medium of acting.
My food will go bad before I can eat it, and somehow this fills me with melancholy. Simultaneously, my battered victim of a wallet only affords the food within my kitchen. Tonight, my stomach is forced to do with cold refried beans; the ones from the can. Somehow this feels a fitting retribution for those suffering from hunger in other worlds.
Nate, the 25 year old who lives in the basement's apartment, is going through a break-up. His typically sunny disposition is soiled and gray. He talks loudly and can be heard through the floorboards at night. He's been drinking too much lately. I realize this is the result of finding your identity in your relationships. It causes me to wonder how I unwittingly seek an empty fulfillment in my own ways. A few obvious answers come to mind.
I am writing a piece of work for my creative writing class. It is a collection of short-short stories, "micro fiction" is the term, I've been told. I am extremely proud of my work. In all my years of reading good and great literature, I feel an extreme sense of accomplishment to think that something, anything, I could ever produce on my own would ever be considered half-way decent by my own standards. Again, I am proud.
But I feel as though I cannot share it with my family, but more so with my father, whom I honor above every other human, and who loves a good book like warm blanket.
What I have written...
It's dirty. And crass. And dark, and at parts disturbing. But it is also autobiographical, and so accurate to my thoughts and feelings, and revealing. Like taking off your clothes in front of a crowd of people who know you and showing them your body as much different than they thought it'd be -with scars and stains from nights they never knew you'd lived.

In all this, I am happy. Life is being lived in a manner I do not think I have grasped it thightly before. I wring it -and it is mine.