I’m reading Anne Rice again. It’s mid-October after all, and my house is full of decorations, but what would Halloween be without a good horror story. Yet it really isn’t. It’s a tragedy. I was explaining The Interview to a friend of mine and said, “After reading it, you end up sympathizing with the character, the vampire.” Her comment was, “Like Dexter.” Ha! What a perfect analogy. It suites me though, the melancholy that chains Louis to mortality. The reckless behavior that Lestat has to exhibit to obliterate his loneliness and attract the fury of others. At least fury is recognition right? The madness in all of them when they finally realize what immortality means and the price they have to pay for it. No one really wanted it, whether from the very beginning or later down the devil’s road, and that’s what suites me.

I try and try to get back on track and I’m knocked down relentlessly. I started riding again and injured myself the third time on the course. I’m going to the doctor tomorrow. I believe I have a hematoma, which means I probably won’t be riding until spring. What’s the point in trying anymore? I feel like lying down in bed and just continuing with the saga of the vampires. After all, their troubles are worse than my own. I would be like John Lennon. I could have people deliver me the books as I finished them one by one. I just don’t feel like moving anymore. Every time I do physically hurt myself. And off I go to the doctor again. I really should count the times I’ve had to go this year. I could put the list up on my wall and measure my sons growth against it. I still think there is a curse, a hex placed on me. And god? Well… that’s a nice theory for people who’s life is going well. Bedtime stories, just like the vampire chronicles. You could choose one or the other. Maybe this is fate. Whatever I choose I seem to keep on ending up in the same exact place. Injured.

I am thinking about the white box in the white room… When I feel emotions overwhelming me, I picture a small white room, with a shelf up high and a white box on it. I take down the box, it’s empty, and I place my feelings inside of it. Then I place the box back up on the shelf. The funny thing is, whenever I do this, I never come back to a room with more and more white boxes that really should be there, and the single box that sits in the same place remains empty. It’s like a garbage disposal. Now, I assume there is a door behind me, perhaps leading to a bedroom, and it’s white too of course, but I never see myself opening that door. I never see myself entering the room or exiting afterwords. So, what exactly is the room? What are the four walls that surround me? Is it like an eggshell? The inside of my mind that I no longer open up to anyone? Are the walls growing thicker every time I open that little white box?

How do I get out.