But reality is something terrible. Reality is destructive, changing, ruinous, oppressive, ever-terrible in its indiscriminate wrath; so that the fickle fury of reality had left a very long absence in the Journal of me, marked by a blackened path of life. It is necessary, absolutely necessary, then, to recognize the power of change that had its way against the Adolescent who used to hate Wal-Mart. Idealism? Nah, he changed. He very much changed that a man could scoff so very loudly against King Louis and his court that everything really had changed and still be understating. The fears of capitalism gone; the idealism of brotherhood, of utopia, of a different reality than this one, gone; the fears of mundane nature would take in, replacing the fiery spirit of the youth.

So that he would learn to be the murderer. Me. Of two crickets.

The Murder of Two Crickets

Crickets are wonderful things. They ought to be recognized as such. Crickets are creatures that writers of old had known as guardians of the hearth, so that they would protect the tranquility of their adopted home as much as any loyal dog would his master. Unlike the aggression of rats and cockroaches, or the traitorous venom of snakes, crickets do not harm the owners of the hearth, for they are their guardians also, and their protectors. The sound of crickets, with their Chirp! Chirp! and Chirrup, sooths the mind; even as they chirp, happy with the warmth of the hearth, they remind men to be pleased with the hearth also, and gladly would he share it with the chirrup of the crickets, pleased as he was to have as company such wonderful things.

But men are also terrible things. We kill, slaughter, murder, rape, rob, and disprove the righteousness of our hearts with the movement of our hands. Terrible, indeed, that I'd hazard a bet that, in your lifetime, you would at least come face to face with men who kill crickets. Men who are so terrified of everything, so insecure, that even the Chirp! Chirp! and Chirrup of crickets would grate their ears, shake the very foundations of their core beings, so that they would go out of their way to murder off the merry ways of crickets to protect themselves from reality. One such man is talking to you right now.

Much like a criminal earnestly defending the innocence of his crime, I will explain to you the rationale of my execution: I fear crickets. I fear their very ugly selfs, their jumpy ways, their swiftness, their inherent dirtiness, so irrationally conceived from my terrified mind of germs on their bodies and the steel of their teeth--the fact that they never ever bit me bothers me not--so much so that I have to kill crickets to go on living. Much like a man who sees enemies everywhere, who sees one-sided things, and advocate loudly, claiming rationality, of genocide, slavery, oppression, destruction, for the sake of his own security--so I justify the murder of the two crickets with a barren face.

A question of why aside, a question how comes in. The weapons, the manners, the rituals of my murder of crickets ought to be investigated. How did I kill the crickets, if I so fear them such? What weapon did I use? What movement of hands, feet, and eyes are needed to catch the swift cricket? How many hits, how many times, in how many ways?

How is the question of tomorrow.

"Environmental disturbances" are soooo easy to screw up my mind. Tomorrow's hopefully better for longer periods of writing