Maelstrom

So. Armed with an outrageous wig and offensive accent, I went out into the world of Maelstrom. This will bore non-larpers to death, so I'll employ the cut:

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OK, reading that over, it's clearly a review. Maybe I'll stick it on pagga later. Or maybe I'm too knackered!

Depression

...may be a chemical leak in my head.

No, it's not bi-polar disorder. I have always been like this, from way back when it was just plain moody bastard syndrome. I live with it because it's part of who I am, and part of what makes me write.

The trigger on this occasion is tiny especially after the fun of the weekend. This feeling will be gone in an hour because I won't permit it to stay. But while here it is like a knee planted firmly on my chest and I feel as though I can't breathe, or as though my heart only beats once an hour.

I read that back, think of invisible knees and suddenly Walpole's gothic novel'The Castle of Otranto,' leaps into my mind, giant phantasmal feet and all. Good old Horace. They don't write them like that anymore.

Why have I studied and read so much? It's not as though I put it to sensible use! I use my knowledge to make me laugh, to dream and to escape. And I don't feel better yet. But I will.