I was idiosyncrasies on acid. I lived in a world of saturations and hues, of hithers and tithers, of half moons and peaking sunsets. I didn’t aspire to become the Oxford period. I wanted to become the Oxford comma — the forever-becoming comma that repeatedly selected itself on broken keyboards.

I was mind over matter, both ancient and child, and in between the first and final Shakespearean Acts of life, my faithful master and servant was my will — the will to obliviate and rewrite my character, my life, my destiny. The choice was mine, yet never before have I felt the burden of my own slavery.

How much freedom there was in the abyss between thought, will, and action — the freedom to be the constant artist of one’s destiny on the canvas of no- thing, no- body, no- where. Yet what an illusion, what bittersweet mockery. One can be free from the shackles of tyranny and oppression, but remain a slave to one’s unbending will.

I sought the trickster, dreamt of him — and foolishly so. I was greeted by my own mirror image, the image of my becoming. It had been me all along, a snake chasing its own tail — the all-knowing sage orchestrating its own psychological and spiritual development.

I must will it, there’s no other way.

I was sheepishly existing among dust and debris, among worldly possessions and goals, while celestial bodies were pulling me an astronomical light year away. Home was among wolves that howled at moonlight — a time for sleep and chase, wild and uninhibited.

I run, and I sever my limbs. I can’t will it.

But will it, I must. I stay, and I choose my ultimate destruction.