I am unbalanced.
Tottering on razors I thought I'd blunted through years of introspection , I'm cutting up my feet again.
I am listening to the imagined whir of kernels recompiling.
I wish they really did whir, though.
How did they decide that Calculus was suitable to teach to us at age 17, but not age 15? How did they know when our brains would be mature enough to handle it...
I remember when Calculus dawned on me in sparkle showers and delicious electric shivers. I remember, thinking back on the year before, knowing myself and knowing that I wouldn't have understood it as well as I did then.
Not necessarily because I understood trig better by that year, but because my brain had grown into the concepts.
Oh, I could've integrated with the best of them...
...but I wouldn't have fallen in love with the idea as well as I did in 1994.
1994, the Year Of Calculus.
HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI.
Calculus, and love, (whodathunk the t'wain should ever meet?) spun my life around that year.
I discovered joy that year.
I'm a crackhead, I know, I know...
But.
But.
I think I'm having another identity crisis. Maybe it's the shock of behaving largely unlike the myself that I have come to depend on, this weekend, and maybe it's me weakening a little under stress, and maybe... maybe it's hormones...
B-b-bbut...
My current excuse is me being at entirely the wrong stages for my age.
I hate that excuse, I'm not writing it down anymore. ("I will not stoop... I choose never to stoop." Well, at least I *try* to never stoop)
But I'm feeling a little confused.
It's hard to profess outside the roiling confines of my bone-chip-jailbin.
I hate that too, I've never been afraid to admit anything to myself before.
Maybe it's too much? Maybe I'm moving too fast? Maybe I've finally bitten off more than I'm willing to swallow and I'm sitting here with a mouthful of half-chewed cud, slowly dissolving it beyond the meagre density of water.
Soon it will evaporate.
And with it my dreams, maybe?
Imagine that, no more driving bogeymen-of-my-own-creation (and strangely enough sporting my clothes and hair), no more overwhelming need to compress years of lessons into seconds.
I could get cable, and watch tv...
Heh.
I almost forgot how sarcastic I intended that to be.
I am gritting my teeth again.
I like to think I don't notice the twinge in my jaw anymore, before the headaches come on, but I do.
I like to think that everyone gets these, but I know they don't.
I know there are people in this hallway smarter and stronger than me, and I want to know how.
I am tired of being Something Relatively Special. I am tired of being an inspiration to the freaks, entertainment to the mundanes, just far enough off my rocker to make things difficult for myself.
Wait, I get it.
I'm just a little tired.
I'm letting those waves wash over me.
I am rocking my own boat, dancing a furious skank-routine on weather-beaten-beams and expecting to sail into a not un-daunting hurricane, unscathed.
And I'm whining.
So here's the plan, eh. We grind until we get our shite done today. We show up for dinner at Beijing for Kingsley's birthday tonight, then we head home and GO TO SLEEP.
And tommorrow, we will pull away the tender skin and begin the planning of a teeth-gritting sans after-effects.