These past few months have been the most chemical imbalancy, abject, crazy-town, gut-wrenchingful months of a life full of 'em, and I figure culminating stress found fulmination finally in a fight or flight response that squarely found itself in column "flight".
Not, mind you, the kind of flight that makes me reparations for being a twenty five year old with a B.A. in Theatre and no discernible future on the horizon, save for the obvious future of time. Consequently, that flight was the kind which shuts you down and cold cocks your system but good. I ran out of "fight" for the first time in my life, and am just left with the angry.
So we're in recuperation land, have been shuffling there in all possible ways since early November, and who knows what bright patch or dark patch we might land into? Keep fastened your seatbelts, because around the corner it's the end of delayed adolescence land, that white elephantine part of yourself that you've concocted with the help of a Protestant-like devotion to films, breakbeats, literature, intense and worthy friendships, theatre, and other forms of worship that were a part of an ego-involved attempt to be a good boy.
I didn't want to be the next disaster in my family. I spent the next eleven years more or less exceeding that expectation. There are many, many things I'd desperately like to keep from those years, least of which are my dreams. My Protestantism, however, needs to make peace with a personal life of some kind.
This should be interesting.