The Choice I Face

For years I have wondered if I should commit myself to a mental institution, and now it seems as if one hard, cold wind could blow me in. Why a small, submissive homosexual should insist on being tough, even when wearing lady's underwear, is beyond me; obviously, it must be considered as part of my condition. But I'm frightened of being in an institution of any kind: I much prefer to wander, lost and lonely, than to be locked away, wrapped in red tape. Yet I need a change of some kind, and to be honest, it seems as if all my meager efforts can't save me, and no one will give me the help I really need to thrive. Survive, yes...thrive, no. Perhaps a manic burst of energy will release an epiphany, that will show me the light, but I don't belong out in the streets anymore. I need a warm room, with nothing to do but think. I want to die, but again there's something feral about me that screams at such a conclusion, and adds, in bold letters I MUST LIVE. Logic can't work on that part of my being: it is the dynamic force, long bottled up that will drag me through Hell before it will ever admit defeat. Unfortunately, only on a stage can this side of me be allowed to be free, and would have been at home on the steppes of Asia, or in a Viking longboat, the shaman in touch with the savage gods, telling the warriors of the dream that will lead them to victory. The time we live in has no place for that, and I hate it. How can I sublimate such supreme contempt for all that civilization congratulates itself for?