Playin' them neuroses like a fiddle

Me and my buddy Will.  Doesn't this look like an album cover?

Anxiety disorder.  Social anxiety.  Depression.  Stuff I carry around.  Endowments, I suppose, from living for many years in emotionally volatile environments.  (All kinds of 'em.)  They've got pills for all that now.  Besides, we're every one of us dragging a cross up Calvary Hill and my sack of woes is penny-ante stuff measured against the many sore trials of humanity.   

Wintertime will set a man to brooding, though.

Tragedy in Tucson, the death of a friend, bronchitis, a cacophony of clamoring voices --all arriving just as the compass needle starts to spin.  Each face is a palette of roiling emotions.  Claw and fang.  Madness looms. 

And suddenly silence.  And finding myself standing, you know, right in the middle of it, just looking around.  And smiling to myself because right now I'm right with everyone I need to be right with.  And because --well, because I feel up to it.  I feel up to whatever it may be. 

What a life!  What a life!