I am in the process of metamorphosis, but in the opposite direction of Kafka or Buffalo Bill.
In this process, it is interesting to notice the irony of how much of a comfort zone is made up of caring about what other people think. Yet the professional, and all those encumbered by the pursuit of their career, are often forced to cultivate the latter so that they may "rest in peace" in the former.
And all those who fail to do the same, no matter how much of a coffin it proves to be to the flourishing of their own soul, are seen as heretics by "Christians" and political conservatives who everywhere proclaim, without a hint of irony, that the liberty of the individual is paramount.
Such a thought is hardly worth the effort to write it down, especially so far beyond the meridian of midnight, but I have often found myself set upon by a thought that will not let me rest until I have pried its gnawing teeth from my mind and set them to paper. And having done so, I can cast them into the bottom of that infernal well of information we call the internet, and like that cursed spirit from The Ring, they then may rise again to torture someone else's dreams instead of my own.
If all of this sounds only too much like the mere musings of a maniac, which of course they are, it is probably because I have read too much of Poe, and now hear the beating heart of each idea beneath the floor boards of every other endeavor I engage in. And as I lay me down to sleep, they swarm in murmuration, tapping, tapping at my cranial door, cast into my tormented mind from the nights Plutonian shore.
And like the Tell Tale Heart, if I do not rip up those boards and share them with at least one other person - which happens to be you this evening, unfortunately - I am haunted by the thought that I have murdered a thought, not by having smothered it with a pillow, but by simply laying my head upon one.
So now to bed I must go, lest another one comes calling that is even more fanged and garrulous than the one I have just imparted to the world. And with it's cursed claws and clanging teeth, robs me of that nepenthe that keeps the shadows of "could of, would of, and should of been" at bay.