Quiet!

My mind is constantly pregnant and always on fire. I've convinced myself that if I weren't a procrastinator and ningas-kugon, I would've died years ago from getting worked up by all these (mostly incosequential) ideas.

Resistance to rushing things is part of my survival mechanism. At least that's how I process things. Maybe if Virginia Woolf had the same slow-it-down-and-breathe mechanism in her brain, we would read a lot more of her works. Science has yet to come up with a pill that aborts bad idea babies and prevents the voices of monsters from making a mess in our brain. I shouldn't assume I know better. But wouldn't it be nice if there's a button we could push so the voices in our head would quiet down?

I like these voices sometimes. There are monsters and angels, witches and queens, scholars and madmen. It gives me many points of view. It allows me to be more empathetic, slow to judge and slow to hate -- most of the time. At one point in my life, though, I started something wrong that took me two years to stop. That was a decision made without thinking. I've told myself many times that I'm done punishing myself for that. One of these days, and I really feel it's soon, it would be for real.

Woolf rushed into ending it all by dying slowly in a river. The alternative was to deal with all the voices in her head -- the good and the bad -- but she was exhausted. Perhaps her brilliance attracted way too much darkness.

My monsters may be fewer if there's even a number, but they are there. I just learned to build a throne before them, so I can sit pretty and glare at all of them and get them in line. The trick is to know they're there. I create a vision where I am not completely surrounded and only God is behind me. It is important to fight these battles with God.

Slow-and-easy could also kill me, too. Still, I feel there is nothing in the world that compels me to live otherwise. Life is short but I am living life to the fullest in my own way; that is enough for a sweet stay on earth. At some point, though, I gotta write lest I die from an implosion of thoughts. Some of these babies need to breathe outside. The brain space could be finite, after all.

Some of my flames die out quickly, some only forge the real treasures over time. I'd look at this entry a year or more from now -- if I'm still alive -- and see if I'm still the same person who believed these things. Maybe it's just one of the voices.