Reading, that questing of the mind, suffusing the synaptic connections with purpose and life -- done so late at night as to be nearly morning; it does strange things to me.
I believe my clearest thinking is done in times like these. Also generally my darkest. I have the greatest capacity for humor, intelligence, curiosity, destruction, creation, drive, will, and self-recrimination during the witching hours. I prefer these sorts of undefined, unbound mental spasms to the sliding through the expectations of life wherein I find myself during daylight hours.
Small wonder I choose escapism over reality so often. Perhaps reality is starting to beckon me back. I feel the urge to break something, and these chains with which I bound myself look awfully tempting.
What is too late? What is it to be young, or old? Is it too soon, am I too impulsive? Am I too stubborn? My chains are derived of myself and they are of no moment to anyone else. My fear drives me, and I am beginning to recognize that. This, I must change. Perhaps my sanity, my very life to live, depends on it.
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