Donkey Hotay-isms (not my creation, and phonetic to boot, but it fits)
I had one of those monumentally earth-shattering personal insights that make you look at yourself and your life, and consider things in a new way. I always pride myself on my ideas, on my ability to see things in a new, better light. My Making may not be up to my Dreaming, but that's more a path than a goal. But what if my ideas are an accident rather than a gift?
When I was young, after my mother died, I began to have severe sleeping problems. Always a voracious reader, I'd stay up until the wee hours chewing through volume after volume. But somewhere along the line, a strange thing started to happen. My vision would blur, and the voices would start shouting in my head. A thousand dark, angry, evil voices screaming into my mind's ears. I could never quite make out what they were berating me about, or even if it had anything to do with me. I tried so hard to decipher it all and was scared stiff of finding the answers. The tide of the voices would press against me, blocking out sight and sound and feeling, driving me out into the darkness. In those moments, years would pass for me in the void, deaf and dumb and blind. I never told anyone about it, as a child not knowing it wasn't normal and not wanting to be a bother. We found out later that I had petit mal epilepsy (the blank staring kind, not the twitching flopping kind). Drugs helped control it, and puberty basically killed it. I haven't been back to the void in almost 9 years.
I knew that when I went away, I came back changed some, my spirit altered from the way it was molded. What if that was the stories going in? I feel them all there, thousands of them waiting to come out, pleading for me to Dream them, crying for me to Make them. What if that's what put them in there, some accident of aberrant brain biochemistry? Not a comforting thought...
Jason
P.S. "Solving a riddle is only an excuse to torture someone else with it." Um... Me?
When I was young, after my mother died, I began to have severe sleeping problems. Always a voracious reader, I'd stay up until the wee hours chewing through volume after volume. But somewhere along the line, a strange thing started to happen. My vision would blur, and the voices would start shouting in my head. A thousand dark, angry, evil voices screaming into my mind's ears. I could never quite make out what they were berating me about, or even if it had anything to do with me. I tried so hard to decipher it all and was scared stiff of finding the answers. The tide of the voices would press against me, blocking out sight and sound and feeling, driving me out into the darkness. In those moments, years would pass for me in the void, deaf and dumb and blind. I never told anyone about it, as a child not knowing it wasn't normal and not wanting to be a bother. We found out later that I had petit mal epilepsy (the blank staring kind, not the twitching flopping kind). Drugs helped control it, and puberty basically killed it. I haven't been back to the void in almost 9 years.
I knew that when I went away, I came back changed some, my spirit altered from the way it was molded. What if that was the stories going in? I feel them all there, thousands of them waiting to come out, pleading for me to Dream them, crying for me to Make them. What if that's what put them in there, some accident of aberrant brain biochemistry? Not a comforting thought...
Jason
P.S. "Solving a riddle is only an excuse to torture someone else with it." Um... Me?
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