I'm sitting here at my computer table with moist eyes. I'm not sure what I want to say. For a long time, I've hidden behind my characters as if they are shields. Lately I've been keeping people at bay so I don't get hurt. It's lonely but at least there isn't pain. My own anxiety is enough to send anyone packing. I'm sorry that I did that to that guy. Anyway, I'm going to go. I wanted to say more but I'm not sure what else to say. I feel like some great author, a hermit who along with his cats, only in this case, with his tarantulas, tries his best to come up with the perfect characters, the perfect plot, and killer chapters. Sure, it maybe emotional fluff that drives my chapters, but they mean something to me. Isn't that the way with every author, they put a bit of themselves into each story at some level anyway even if it's superheros, characters based on myths, or creatures of the night. Tonight though, I hope to don't want to dream of monsters or men. I want to just sleep and then rise in the morning only to earn my pennies and come home to the arms of my shield, the characters who are constantly shaped by whatever remains of my imagination. They are shaped by my emotions, by the people who cross my path, and my experiences for what they are worth. Tonight, I want to forget but I can't. I want to forget that pain exists. I want to be happy and I want to live even if my anxieties get the best of me at times. Tonight, I want to be in the arms of a friend, because tonight the pain is real. Anyway, I need to finish up this paragraph and get back to another.