It's no better for me I still cannot breathe.

So I've been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of that kind of thinking that's dangerous. The kind that Thoreau must've been thinking when he decided, "Walden pond would be a bloody fantastic place to live by myself for close to two years." However, it's also the kind of thinking that made Theodore Kaczynski decide to leave his comfortable job at Berkeley and start sending bombs in the mail.

Thinking is dangerous.

This time of year is always so retrospective for me. I remember every mistake. Every regret is amplified and forced into present regardless of its timeframe. I think it's the cold, the way that it pours into my pores and finds its way into my lifeblood.

It cools me. Calms me. Kills me.

This sort of numbness of body causes an awakening of the mind for me. Fresh rushes of anxiety make me race through a list of paranoid demands, but after those have been satisfied I feel alive with possibility. I say to myself, "I'm going to make a difference," and because my mind is racing on the high of satisfying its self-created anxiety I develop all these grandiose plans to do just that.

Maybe I will. Maybe I can.

I recently read Moby Dick for the umpteenth time. I think perhaps you can, "Call me Ishmael."

In Giant's Hands

In the valley below the ridge, you stood admiring Giant's Hands.

Like great fingers they stretched toward heaven, their peaks undoubting.

When the sleet pounded against the ground like tiny fists

Giant's hands closed round about you, shielding from storm.

Giant's Hands would lift you up and aid you in drinking Sun's deep rays.

Giant's Hands would steady you to feel Wind's embrace, breathtaking.

Giant's Hands would warm you in the hour of your shame.

And Giant's Hands would comfort you.

But Giant's Hands are buried now.

Rooted.

Bound.

No more lifting.

No more comfort.

And from Giant's Hands you must walk away.

Cold Realization

Recent events have caused me to think an inordinate amount about death. I do not deal well with death. I am not a great consolation to those who lose loved ones, I become despondent and can seem cold when in reality I am merely shirking from the horrible inevitable reality that no one escapes Death's hands. It is an impossible fact for me to face.

I have however thought of death, hell, heaven etc. for hours at a time and have tried to compose my thoughts on it in different forms of writing. I am going to share a few of those on this blog over the coming weeks. I am hoping that they may be able to help anyone who has lost someone, or perhaps alleviate some of my uncontrollable fear.

When You're Around

There is a certain unprecedented aspect to this world of information. This insatiable need that each of us seem to have to publish our lives to those that we deem "friends." Perhaps this will become that, or perhaps it will just be a spattering of the more poignant penning I ensue over the next several months.

Time will tell.