Few aspects of the bipolar life make sense. Lately I've tolerated the word "crazy" more than I feel anyone should. "Intense" also entered the fray.
I wait it out, as patiently as my emotions allow.
All I know is that I feel and feeling doesn't stop. As a spiritual community we are taught to follow our feelings to verify truth.
What I feel: Restlessness. Discontent. Unsettled. Fluctuation. Passion. The chemical charge of sexuality. A ghost of unholy proportions that whispers little peace. Haunted. A mistrust of organized leadership to even come close to getting what the last thirty-eight years of feeling have produced in me as far as a capability to accept that people with mood disorders can count on any sort of security in the arms of anyone other than a Savior. The necessity to create run-on sentences. The push of language. The fury of sound, of light, of scent, of color. The synthesis of senses. The oneness of that convergence with all that is not comprised within the boundary of my skin. The fiery witness of attraction. The promise of tutelage in stillness from stone.
I press my hands to the walls of the canyon and attempt to merge with the cool weight of a billion year's existence. Instead, I am a leaf quavering before the fall, waking to the slow awareness of waning nourishment from the steadying branch.