Poo.

I don't know exactly what is driving me.
I think I'm going mad inside my walls, again.
Somehow I have erected them, again.
The truth will set me free.
But not here.
Not over the internet, where its wires and connections and unlimited distractions cannot hold me up as well as a pen can.
I feel sick inside.
Like a sick, twisted monster that can only hurt those who come close.
Because I cannot make them happy, I fear they will leave me, and in the leaving I will somehow become destroyed. I do not wish for this fate.
How do I free myself from this cage, again?
How do I find myself in another land, again?
Must I battle it out, again?
Must I torture the horse, again?
Bring it out, ride it bareback into the ground.
But that sounds like running, and running is not what is in my best interest.
My best interest includes seeking, not running. Well, then, anchors away.
Let me float up out of the hole.
Or die down inside it.
But please, let it fade away. Let it leave me. Let it leave me. Let it leave me. Let me be enough to fill it, again. Let me be enough to kill it, again. Let me be enough to set it free, again.
Because it is screwing me ever inward, and bending me ever so slightly to apathy, where I fear I will not be able to twist out without wrenching and tearing the framing that holds me.
The tower?
Possibly.
This Karmic lesson has not yet been learned, else I wouldn't be here, again.
So where do I go? Another meeting? Another appointment? Another literature study group? I will go upstairs and write my damn paper. If he doesn't accept it tomorrow, then he doesn't accept it and I fail. Whatever. I won't let this failure kill me. Though I may cry and rage and scream and rail against myself, I will not let me die! I will not forsake my life! I will not let my dreams die! For Winterfell!