I am monumentally angry. Outrageously angry. Seething. My innards are burning black. I feel psychically paired with Vesuvius, circa spring 79 AD.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading books about 9th century Saxon England. But maybe it’s because I’m finally letting myself get a taste of what’s REALLY been going on in my head, something that I have pushed down and let go for so long that, instead of passion, it’s revealing itself as a simmering rage. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretty much everyone and everything that stands in my way.

I must go west, and I must get to high ground. I feel like I’m straining at my tether here, and it’s nearly set to snap. Something’s up. Something’s wrong. Or maybe something’s finally right. Maybe this is what it feels like to stand at the edge of freedom.

Just hope I can get out of here before I snap, or before it floods again. Whichever comes first…it’s all up to the Fates now.