Deep within myself I am a silent witness to the cold number crunching of my own mind. In my darkest hours I have sought refuge in angels and demons. This integral part of me seems to have run amok and now only seeks its own strange purpose. And I am here, trapped inside with it. Subject to its tempestuous moods and turns.
Some days it is pensive and quiet and allows me to rest and work. Other days it is mad and maniacal and seems to want only darkness. It casts dreary and frightening images of my own ruin across the landscape and will not allow for any peace.
I have initiated a sort of dialogue in the past, but it refuses to listen to reason and scoffs at pleas of compassion. While it is affable and kind to others, its main goal is to torment me. I find this odd as we both must share this space together. This space and time.
It has been withdrawn lately, and for a while has only offered minor negative viewpoints. But maybe it is just resting and collecting its strength for another attempt at the coup.
I have taken residence in a small wooden cabin on the banks of the Rio Hondo. I left all my things at the house on Chicory Street and have avoided town for quite some time. I can not respond properly in conversation and have lost the desire to spend time near others.
At present, I am watching three riders and ponies in the distance navigate the muddy banks of the river. They seem to be moving north to south, but are more or less dim figures to me. The wind blows softly and trees shake their leaves.
As night approaches I feel some relief. I will sit on the porch in my small wooden chair and wait for the stars to ascend. I wonder what the riders see, when they see me.
Before Camille died, she warned me that people often misconstrued intentions, as their own were frequently questionable. But I didn't take to heart what she said. My involvement in the events of the town was only initiated under the best of intentions. Had I known what I know now, I would have kept quiet in the house on Chicory Street. The avarice of men it seems knows no limits.
The riders have turned to the east and now I can make out a face. Stan Pitkin is leading the other two, and they're coming this way. I helped save his daughter two years ago during a flash flood that came tearing down the valley, pulled her from the muck at the last moment. It's a shame how things can turn out. I should have known better than to involve myself in these disputes when it concerns money and pride. By the time the three men are within shouting distance Stan is already reaching for his Winchester. I could run but it would not matter. At least it will quiet that demon in my head. I close my eyes and wait for it.
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