BLOOM
I can feel it nagging at the back of my brain, grinding about, subtly polluting everything there-in. I just don't know what it is. It's usually so familiar. Sometimes it's the sneaking nostalgia, accompanied by the inevitable wistfulness bred there. Sometimes it's a total departure from rational thought, a lone idea diving off the high board of paranoia and then creating panic. Sometimes it's the shame of a thousand failures, both real and those merely perceived. But this time, as has been all the worst times, it's nothing. Or more accurately, the specific absence of something--a vacancy of sorts where something else has been misplaced and it's loss throws a kink into the entire operation. I hate this the most. It's like an illness without possible diagnosis. You can treat the symptoms, but it will probably still kill you. That's what is happening to me. I'm being murdered in slow motion by my own brain. It's going to b...