I argued with myself on the decision to write this post, or live through the day without comment. This morning told me not to write. I was also called "humble" by a very attractive woman. The cause for both escapes me; I'm usually arrogant and verbose. I stared at the screen for a while trying to write a brief letter to a parishioner at my church currently serving in Iraq. All I could come up with was "Thank You."
Today is the thirteenth anniversary of my madness. It started as laughing at the back of my ear. Today, the sympotms have names, voices, personalities out of my control. Most of my time is out of control. I look fine, but I'm not. I'm in a good mood, but my symptoms are spiralling. I've got a smile on my face, and so does The Harvester. Usually he stands behind me, and scythes me down like so much wheat. Today, he went out of his way to stare me in the face.
I just walked away and looked in the mirror. I have The Harvester's smile. My claws are coming out. Old visions fit my gaze like Christine's curves as I remember them, but this is not about her. Prester Bane would smile if he had a face. Both my hands grin like fools; my fingers float over the keys, with only the tips of my talons touching plastic.
I'm not fighting tonight. I don't feel like fighting. I won't do it. They don't sleep.