I cannot sleep, food disgusts me, I want to go for long walks at 3am, I read a book a day. I can hear the subtle base in the music. My thoughts are quick and random, yet I have become skilled at slowing them down enough for me to decide which ones are worth pursuing. I speak to my parents over the phone and they notice my fastened speech, I have to be honest otherwise they will think I am high. When I finally get to sleep my dreams are catastrophic, I have to fight for my life, and usually save the world.
The reverse mirror of my life.
I don't want to go to my doctor because she will give me yet another drug and I am on too many already. Maybe I can ride this one out all by myself. Solitude is a great companion, especially when I already have a million thoughts to fill my time with:
Arabica, Malbec and Menthols are great company though, my three best friends.
Them, my books, music, the blank screen and me. Much better than my usual response to the bright days: rum, dancing and boys... Maybe I am finally growing up.
If I didn't smoke so much I would go running, I run in my dreams. God, I've smoked so much today.
I'm torn, this is who I am, where my creativity soars, and yet, if I embrace it fully I will cease to be;
If I compromise I will be numb, with brief moments of light, yet I will live. But as of today, all the amazing things I have contributed to this world, my writing, are the product of my madness.
I have nothing else to give...
When I am manic like this, the world, although a million colours, is regrettably black or white.
It is either worth fighting for or fighting against. I have not made my mind up yet. I play the part, and avoid temptation. I take on new roles that require less effort just so that my manic mind can consider all the available options. Yet, I know I will never let her take control, never again.
And the sun rises earlier and I am still awake. And the glass of red is still sitting by my bed while I write; and I am still hopelessly trying to keep count of the fags I smoke every day. And then I miss winter, when the cold is real and the darkness forces me to sleep. Instead I am trapped in the worst instances of who I am. It is warm outside and yet a cold emanating from my bones envelops me, I can't sleep because my mind is bright with meaning and words, and I am useless against it.
It would be easy to say my life is a mess right now, but it is not. It is in perfect order. Common sense has won this battle, for once. My manic self is precariously dealing with the nightmare left by my younger self. The physical and emotional debt, the mental devastation. I spend endless hours writing all to myself, trying to explain, taking apart and putting together all that I have done, and yet even today it all somehow makes sense.
I could die today. I have known love and I have felt fear. I have experienced happiness and I have dreaded pain. I have embraced success and I have walk the path of failure. And yet there are a thousand more lives I could live, and so I won't die today. Nobody knows the battles I face, they number a million by the end of the day. I choose to live everyday, I choose to live a life worth living. I take my meds, eat, smoke a little less, talk to my sister, write. I choose to hope that the manic will pass, like the circumstances will.
I live a tumultuous life, unpredictable and complicated, yet I wouldn't change it. It is rich and full, and beyond the expectations of who I once was Regardless of all my failings I have always followed the paths I chose, with all their consequences. And they are an unpredictable part of this life of mine.
.
And the sun rises earlier and I am still awake. And the glass of red is still sitting by my bed while I write; and I am still hopelessly trying to keep count of the fags I smoke every day. And then I miss winter, when the cold is real and the darkness forces me to sleep. Instead I am trapped in the worst instances of who I am. It is warm outside and yet a cold emanating from my bones envelops me, I can't sleep because my mind is bright with meaning and words, and I am useless against it.
It would be easy to say my life is a mess right now, but it is not. It is in perfect order. Common sense has won this battle, for once. My manic self is precariously dealing with the nightmare left by my younger self. The physical and emotional debt, the mental devastation. I spend endless hours writing all to myself, trying to explain, taking apart and putting together all that I have done, and yet even today it all somehow makes sense.
I could die today. I have known love and I have felt fear. I have experienced happiness and I have dreaded pain. I have embraced success and I have walk the path of failure. And yet there are a thousand more lives I could live, and so I won't die today. Nobody knows the battles I face, they number a million by the end of the day. I choose to live everyday, I choose to live a life worth living. I take my meds, eat, smoke a little less, talk to my sister, write. I choose to hope that the manic will pass, like the circumstances will.
I live a tumultuous life, unpredictable and complicated, yet I wouldn't change it. It is rich and full, and beyond the expectations of who I once was Regardless of all my failings I have always followed the paths I chose, with all their consequences. And they are an unpredictable part of this life of mine.
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