Once again I wake up with the fear. What am I afraid of? I say I want to write, that in my heart I know that’s what I’m meant to do, but then I can’t, or just won’t. Am I afraid of taking a chance, afraid of making a wrong turn, afraid of what the future holds, afraid I may use the wrong words? I’ll force myself anyway, come what may. Because I can’t continue on like this for another moment. The thought of fully entering into the realm of madness fills me with more fear than anything else. So I’ll take the chance. My salvation perhaps, that which keeps me free of yet another drug addiction, socially acceptable or not.

The worst part is this inability to concentrate. It’s full-blown warfare inside my head. The battle rages, but the soldiers are no longer under the orders of a central commander. Instead they run this way and that with various odd weaponry and ammunition. A cannon here, a musket there. Someone has an AK-47; another has what appears to be some sort of nuclear device. And all with wild looks in their eyes, under their own delusional orders, with unshakable faith in their own personal gods or demons.

I search madly for the leader, but there seems to be no one in charge. Meditation might help, but so far there’s only marginal improvement, because quieting the soldiers is close to impossible. They are all so anxious and determined in their missions, whatever the hell they are – and I’m not so certain they know themselves.

Addressing them and documenting their maneuvers is helping a little, so I will continue to do so. I’ll be the lone scribe in the warzone, keeping records, writing it all down. By the light of a failing fire with the deafening din of gunfire all around me, I scribble away. Eventually they grow weary and heavy-lidded, and drag themselves off to their tents to sleep for a little while. And gratefully, so shall I.

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