Hot or cold, but that gets old
Tell me who I am, cause I don’t seem to transcend
Beyond those cramped spaces in my brain
Where the listless thoughts careen into the fray
A place I swore I wouldn’t stay
So you can keep up or tear away
“Manic depression is a frustrating mess” – Jimi Hendrix
The intangible objects lay in front of me dancing to my dissatisfaction, restless and piercing the fever and impulses shutting down my brain. I didn’t know what time it was but everyone in the house was long asleep. There was an entire army of sleepless dreadnoughts waiting in the bay to fire at will. Chaos feels like order in the waning and sleep deprived hours between twilight and the next round of shells, fragmenting my mind– what was left of it anyway.
I wasn’t tired; I wasn’t coherent and was coming unglued as well. The scattered pile of ornate things, electronics and a silent television- my only companion; made sense to me and only me, any other person who’d have come in contact would have thought I was hoarding; and maybe I was. The practicality of insanity is that it is very unattractive to the unfamiliar. Fuck those people.
‘Crazy’ becomes a relative term and it still means little to me.
I knew the advent of my disorder was at hand after a late night session like this (and there were so many) and my first episode was a lucid dream or the worst ‘reality show’ you’ve ever seen, because no one could feel like this; no one in their right mind. In the waking hours, or the 25th hour of this new awareness; I would send text messages to my wife like “I am a god; I can smash through walls”. It must have been terrifying for her. Any true friends I had during this period must’ve wanted to float me out to sea and watch from the shoreline. It’s safer from a distance; anyone who’s been to the psych ward will tell you that.
And who would risk safety to push me to dry land?? I would have bailed on myself.
I should have been terrified but instead I was thrilled.
You slept through the first fifteen and since then it’s all coasting down hill.
The gravel pit is safe but smells like disaster; or rotting flesh- limited capacity to think, so who cares?
Let the vultures have their share…
The smell of fried meat and no distinction to what’s dead and forgotten. Trans fats are penicillin for the taste buds
You look so cute with your little bonnet wound tight and the skin taut but not excessive— I WONDER WHAT YOU TASTE LIKE?
It’s like I can smell you from here- the fragrant innocence, at least at a distance. And that distance makes it ok to stare.
your eyes wont blink, and you’d care if the world outside made sense.
No one will make you care about others.
No one will make you care for yourself.