A Plea

     Craving the contrast of subtle and aggressive. That tempting, disorienting mixture that leads me farther and farther from logic, thinking, considering consequences. That's what alcohol was made for, to foster this; ask any alcoholic. Collecting stone by stone to build this dungeon to call my own, a stage, a private stage of little deaths. Constricting by the encountering mind and personality of wannabe masters, weeding them out a mountain task and a half. I can feel that bubble of dread welling up between my lungs, heart, and esophagus. Clearly an ominous sign. Along I go, hoping for something better. For the consummation that this waiting, seeking has an end. The looking has provided me with much. I've discovered more about myself: I can't tolerate people that don't directly speak their minds in any situation. ('Drop the act, and have a thought!" she screams.)

11/22/09