"The steam of my misfortunes
Has given me the power to be afraid"

Sometimes I need to climb out of the book to see what's going on. Within the book, the reality of life is made up of describable constructs, some of which are abstract, but all discernible within the mind's eye. Their definitions seem to bypass the individual senses, having a seemingly direct connection into the awareness centers of the brain, where all sensation is received, analysed and transformed into a perception of what has been sensed. Swirling between these interpretations within the book, and often emanating from them, are insubstantial entities, which arouse various levels of feeling within my being. These entities add colour to the grey landscapes within the book, and give my life meaning as I trudge often wearily through the chaotic terrains of numerous words and misplaced punctuation. With each page I traverse, my fathomless store of experiences increases, forcing me to evolve as each of their unique essences permeates my organism, offering mutual nourishment in our symbiotic existence. But over time, accumulated experiences can mutate, creating unbalance in our interdependent subsistence. At this time, a mutation releases dark clouds of venom, which course through the bodily channels into the logic centers, often causing confusion, depression and reduction in the basic ability to function adequately. Uncertainty and doubt arise, and the interpretation of the same stimuli is misunderstood. The safe foot-holds I had mere moments before, start to crumble: broken words and punctuated fragments topple discontentedly away, trying deperately to re-attach themselves to outcrops of phrasing, in a vehement attempt to re-define the landscape as they fall. I scramble frantically to ensure the continued effort of my ascent, the edge of my consciousness in sight. My hands are bleeding, my knees raw to the bone, the sharp edges of old and crusty script giving no friendly purchase to my endeavour. But perseverence and will are on my side, and finally, exhausted and lacerated, I clamber over the lip, and fall onto the soft foundation, beyond the book. The air is thin here, too thin to live on, and I pass out momentarily. When I awake, the apathetic mutation has died, leaving only the stripped shell of a reminiscence. I recuperate. The book must wait.