The Fall of (Wo)Man

Once a month, every month, I spend approximately one week being certifiably insane. I am alternately weak as a newborn kitten or as strong as Atlas, bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders. I am reduced to tears as often as glaring rage, and both without explanation.

The experts (or maybe just some hippies), claim that this is all tied to the moon and the tides. I wonder if Mother Earth gets PMS?

During this time of maddening, I seek comfort in worldly things-sweatpants and chocolate milk and long naps in the middle of the day. After a few days time, I can emerge from my madness and return to the real world, where I only cry when others can't see me, and my rage is reserved for those who earn it.

Oh Discordia! (Or, How Stephen King Ruined My Life)

I've spend my summer wandering the Path of the Beam with Roland and his ka-tet of gunslingers, and I can say, with no hesitation, that Stephen King ruined my life. It has been years since I've allowed myself to be sucked into a work of literature in such a way. Not even J.K. Rowling (whom I adore), or Raymond Feist (who worked so hard to win me over), has kept me up so many nights. I haven't managed a solid, peaceful night's sleep all summer (there are monsters in the todash darkness). It isn't necessarily fear that keeps my from my REM sleep, but the way fragments of Mid-World work their way into my half-conscious, to lay their dusty, mutant eggs in my already wacked-out dreams.

I've had vicious nightmares my entire life. Even as a small child, I would have dreams so vivid and opaque that one would swear you could reach out and touch them. All five senses in full effect, I've felt shattered glass flay my hands (just the other night), and smelled the rot of driftwood and seawater wafting down an empy beach (years and years ago). Despite these damn-near-tangible dreams, I've never been haunted so thoroughly, even into waking. Like Roland (or perhaps King himself, though I'd never seek to presume), I was pulled, contrary to every intuition, deeper and deeper, until I had no choice but to pick up the damn book and keep walking.

I finished last night. I have no complaints about the ending-it was absolutely right, and could have ended no other way without making the whole journey meaningless. I (the Patient Reader) am keeping every crossable appendage crossed in the hopes that my heart and my head can disconnect themselves from the Tower and finally get some rest. This humble writing of mine does little to communicate what I've actually felt these past months, but perhaps you (also the Patient Reader) can pick up clues and draw some good conclusions.

Sai King turned my whole world nineteen, and I can't tell if I love him or hate him for it. Perhaps Ka will yet tell, say thank ya.