Whatever was following me has gone to rest where I can not see it, cannot hear it, cannot trace it by scent. I have a moment’s respite from the swirling thoughts that lead me to forget we are all born free. It is when I stop running, that I remember I am not the patient kind. I am much like an addict who turned away from drugs, instead embracing full-force chaos. It makes me ill, but it gets me high. All I seek is a way to direct the way it affects me. I am too restless for an existence in which things develop slowly. I complain for being pinned down like a butterfly, then I complain when my wings are freed. Am I troubled by the circumstances I am presented with, or am I simply troubled? I know the answer, I know.
When I was a child, my parents kept chickens and rabbits in the backyard. I loved them dearly, until I found that the feathered creatures would not shut up, and the furry creatures liked to eat their young. It wouldn’t be long before they all met their demise. Every week, we would come home from a family outing to find one of our animals had been impaled. Each and every one of them, pierced straight through. Soon after, stranger occurrences took place. But I don’t write about that. Mostly, I try to forget it ever happened.