Forget What You Know.

I'm a lister. Neat columns of blue ballpoint ink on college rule paper, outlining my life, waiting to be crossed off. Structured, bureaucratic, exact. And there's nothing more grating than an unfinished list at midnight. But I seem to be collecting a lot of those lately. 'To read' gets longer (38 now, with number one still in place), and those three months of open time, glorious prospects, is now at 10 days. And the mini panic attacks are becoming more frequent. Hyperventilation included. "So long as we keep our bodies numb we're safe.", but now I'll never see that in person, and though I've been "Numb" for years (two? three?) now it still hurts. So I almost don't quite believe it. Another drink doesn't keep you safe from what's inside your head. Wednesday at 8 the existentialism kicks in. And I've got the feeling that convincing them I'm better behind a pen rather than a lens is going to be difficult. Because I'm not supposed to know what I want. And the system's too complicated to change now. But It's my future, however dark, not theirs. 'Right. Write.' Four sets of six and some odd ones out, it doesn't quite fit the formula.