I read a book once. Can't remember which one - I read so many things so quickly that they begin to collide in my brain and mesh together. One, giant, monolithic novel with conflicting themes and hundreds of characters.
The main character found himself encompassed by the constant humming of an electric fence. Sure as day, day by day, it hummed and hummed. It was like the silk slip under a mistress's layers and layers of clothing or the beat that begins a song and carries on throughout.
That's how I was - there was always something rushing through me. A pulsing current, the crashing of relentless waves, the buzzing noise of a fluorescent light in a crumbling basement office - whatever. I didn't think about it much, just continued on throughout my days without much reflection or contemplation. At any given point, I had a purpose. A goal, coursing through my veins and making the good days great while providing me with the zeal to plough through the bad ones.
What bothers me, though, is that I can't remember if I woke up one day and it was gone, or, if it had been disappearing day by day. Was I the beetle in Kafka's Metamorphosis? Did I awaken a completely different person, unable to recognize myself? Or, was the change that of a lazy river carefully carving its way through great rock formations: sneaky, deliberate, devastating.