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."