These quiet moments of introspection are always taken at such odd moments. If I had to give an accurate impression of them, of the times that make me write, I would have to say it stems from a sort of weariness of spirit. When I was depressed, I would write these long tirades on things, endlessly dancing around asking the questions that have become my old companions. Now that I'm not depressed, I still have these times of emotional exhaustion. It's like when I had gallstones. I was in so much pain that I eventually went into shock. Funny thing about shock - it makes everything in the world come into such clear focus. Granted, a very narrow one, but clear. Lying on the floor in my parents' kitchen, beating my head on the floor to distract myself from the pain, and knowing that nothing I could do would make it stop, I withdrew within myself. All of my hopes and fears, my experiences and my plans, they all shrank into mere points against the landscape painted for me only by my immediate senses. I was only my experience at that very instant, nothing more, nothing less. It was amazing, amazing enough that I would almost do it again, if I knew I didn't have to deal with everything else that came with it afterwards. Some philosopher and a few psychologists said that we have a subconscious death urge that lurks beneath the surface. I can see the evidence of it in my fascination with that moment in my life. I think for a while afterwards I sought to receate it with drugs. Eventually I came to see that while that state is perfect in its terrible clarity, "who wants to dissolve all the time"? Goodnight, everyone, it's good to be back in the world of the living.