C'mon, let's walk, you and me. What's that? You didn't wear the right shoes? Take mine. Seriously. Outside of my ADD, there doesn't seem to be a single head, trained appropriately or otherwise, who can pinpoint precisely what the deal is with me. At this point, it doesn't even matter. Lemme school you on what it's really like to be me. Do you have any idea how draining it is to do all the things you're supposed to do?! Focus. Stay with the conversation. Color inside the lines. All this, while taking a psychostimulant every day of your life, to help you stay calm and focused enough to get things done. If that isn't f*cked-up for starters, I don't know what is. People who have the expectation that I'm not not going to be drained at the end of the day, let alone the end of the school year, clearly have never done what I do. Ever. All this, of course, while I'm just dying to come out with the first thought that comes into my head, pertinent or not. Mash the throttle and feel the rush of life in second-overdrive, while the trees whistle by on the interstate at 140 m.p.h. But alas, that would get me killed. Or at the very least, incredibly alienated. From everyone in about an 8,000-mile radius. People who don't understand that the hardest thing about my soul is trying to figure out where to point this thing. And where not to. Apparently there are certain trajectories at which my eyes alone pack a pretty hellacious wallop. To say nothing of my words, or my actions.

Another little something I had almost forgotten about. Imagine having a startle-reflex so vicious that the rest of the world seemed to regard it as entertaining to scare the sh*t out of you when you least expected it. Explain to me how that one thing alone, were you the one afflicted by it, would not have you perpetually on-guard. And then people have the nerve to wonder why I bi*ch perpetually about being tired?! Get real.

The bottom line? I can live inside the box, but it sure as hell isn't my natural habitat. Imagine a soul that's screaming at you, every single day, "God, but if I only could....." without deadly repercussions. Most people, minimally, are programmed, or learn quickly, what is and isn't appropriate. If I'm wrong about the average person's capacity to stifle those screaming, prodding voices within them, by all means say so. In the meantime, if it's a certain time, on a particular weekend, where I haven't taken my meds because I damned-well didn't feel like it, didn't feel like dealing with the "crash," or other equally unpleasant medication side-effects, I have one word for you; deal. There are, in fact, times when I'm just flat-out tired of being everything I need to be, and doing everything I need to do.  So if  I'm taking a minute to draw, or say what I think, or get caught up in hip-hop, played at make-your-ears-bleed volumes purposely to drown out everything and everyone imaginable, take my advice. Take two steps back, wait till I'm done, and then advance at your pleasure. Or peril. Same thing if the reverse happens to be true; if you hear the Kitaro going, it's a big sign in flashing neon, that says, "WARNING, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! DANGER!" It won't be pretty. The backlash could very easily cut you in half. And, like I said, at other times, I just need to have that rat-a-tat-tat-to-make-yo-neck-snap-back. Sorry, that's just me.

I suppose the fact that I even recognize that this is the case counts as progress, in some circles, but it is by no means a panacea. I don't seem to have really found the "sweet spot" yet, so it's a game of perpetual compensation; don't let yourself get too far in either direction. Like I said, if half the game is just being able to stay the hell off the guardrails, I guess that's good. But, of course, it leaves you marveling at those who have mastered the rapier skills at which you see yourself as woefully inadequate. If I had it my way, I would be a metaphorical razor in every concievable direction, but I suppose that, too, has its own perils. There are certain things, believe it or not, I wish did come more naturally to me; skills with numbers. Social adeptness. You get the picture. To me, a voice, or a mere sound, is like a picture of your background, a step into the innermost part of your mind. A voice in an instant absolutely rings with pure soul. If you don't understand that, it's okay, I guess I didn't really expect you to. In absolute stillness, my ears just ring sometimes, to a point that any normal person would either tune out or be absolutely maddened by. I still don't ever feel like I can really make myself totally clear, no matter how hard I try, no matter which of the thousands of words at my disposal I chose to use.

On the flip-side, I suppose there are people who would kill to be me, even for five minutes, just to have the skills that I do happen to have. Taken in total, I suppose it all comes down to taking from God what He decided to bless or curse you with, even if the things that are both a blessing and a curse are the exact same things. That, and knowing where the guardrails are.