I feel liberated at last to make a break or hit where it really hurts. It's an unrestrained, practically unconscious and unavoidable free-for-all clawing for control and protection of my sense of self ensues -- ripping to shreds the last vestiges of any façade of calm composure. And what else could be expected in the face of such extreme folly and upon release from self-imposed bondage? ... to strut my stuff, and escape to my own anthem at last!
There's a degree of ironic symmetry to being enveloped in the asylum of this supposedly reviled, contemptible thing. Prevailing winds liken it to the monster under the bed, the ghost-story or hidden threat of danger. Yet with adrenaline pumping and scared of being ripped to shreds, I can't help but give chase and sneak a peek into the underbelly of the ravenous, illicit passions of the other-half -- from a distance. And perhaps it's worth investigating if only to identify that which I can't yet accept in myself.
