Sometimes I wonder why you come here.

But I think I already have a pretty good idea.

There’s a certain freedom in speaking your mind, and relating your thoughts exactly as they are.

In this world… that… freedom, isn’t always possible. It isn’t always possible to relate your feelings and emotions, and to relieve yourself of what you carry deep inside. Many of us worry, a great deal, about being judged. Condemned. Labelled. Excluded. Vilified.

So, instead, many of us must carry on; overburdened and stymied.

I speak, and you listen, then.

I say aloud what I feel, and perhaps, you feel some semblance of vicarious catharsis?

I do not believe it is the colors. Or the shapes. Nor the updates on GREEN KNIGHT, which bring you here, time and again.

To live in this world requires a great many talents. Would you agree?

For me, I am not aware of the layer of armor that shields me from feelings of vulnerability, until it is stripped away.

If I go awhile without smoking weed, then the resumption of the practice is entirely unsettling. Strange and unsettling, but also informative.

While many remark that weed is… just this party drug, or a relaxant… I don’t feel that way at all.

I could not more strongly and ardently disagree.

For me, it is truly mind altering.

A few moments, and the armor is stripped away. Six inches of wrought iron just… pulled clean away from my face and chest. I find myself feeling physically cold, unsafe, alone, and yes: scared.

It isn’t like the usual me.

It’s me, without my armor.

My empathetic side. My emotional side.

It isn’t to say I don’t feel… because that isn’t the slightest bit true. But it’s me without the garb of the engineer.

But none of this is very descriptive, is it?

As I said, I feel cold.

I crawl underneath the covers, and look up at the ceiling with wide eyes.

I think: “You’re having a bad trip, little Jonny.”

And that isn’t untrue, per se, but merely… inexact.

It takes a born writer, I think, to understand another writer fully. Otherwise the nuances are lost.

I heard something. A voice: “Please leave a message.”

It wasn’t mine, though. Someone standing outside the window, apparently.

I fling open the door, thinking: “Perhaps I’m weak right now, but not so weak I would shirk from seeing your face, whoever you are.”

But there’s no one there.

Perhaps there never was.

Perhaps it’s just my drug addled brain conjuring sequences of some… significance.

There is nothing more than the sharing of one’s soul.

That is it.

There is no further depth, you see?