"From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me."
Walt Whitman (1819-92)
"When I look back now over my life and call to mind what I might have had simply for taking and did not take, my heart is like to break."
Akhenaton (d. c.1354 BC)
And now, the current weather, from some random person we pulled off the street:
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Adrenaline Syrup
cy-cle Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English cicle, from Late Latin cyclus, from Greek kyklos circle, wheel, cycle -- more at WHEEL
1 : an interval of time during which a sequence of a recurring succession of events or phenomena is completed 2 a : a course or series of events or operations that recur regularly and usually lead back to the starting point b : one complete performance of a vibration, electric oscillation, current alternation, or other periodic process
3 : how my life works
Last week, I was delighted to find that I was a sports car.
At the slightest touch, I would leap ahead, my motor wanting nothing more than the power and speed that filled its every inch. The world rushed by like the boards in a picket fence at 100 miles an hour, the wind parted helplessly before me as I revved myself up to my very limit, screaming down the highway with pure, wild ecstasy.
For once, I felt well, I felt whole, I felt in charge. Everything was right with the world, and the world and I were right with each other. Excitement tinged my every breath. Every sight was awash in color, every sound was a symphony, every emotion was ablaze with fireworks and meaning. The world is made of adrenaline.
That was last week.
This week is different. There's no sports car any more. This week, I am a sepia toned portrait, brown and faded at the edges, crinkly and fragile. Life itself seems devoid of expression, a blank emptiness with no hope of being filled. I even found it incredibly hard to write the last couple of paragraphs about last week, because the me that lives in this week has trouble even imagining such a thing, such an experience.
As of now, its all dull brown and kind of deadish, melancholy like autumn leaves that have long since fallen from the trees, leaving the bare branches exposed to the cold winds above. I hide from the door, from the phone. The world is made of tasteless syrup.
That's what its like being me, you see.
I've mentioned here before that I have an illness, a mood disorder. It's chemical based, just like diabetes or hypothyroid. They used to call it manic depression, now they use the more politically correct term "bipolar disorder."
People that have this thing "cycle" from one state to another, just like I wrote above (which is true, btw.) There will be an "up" followed by a "down" that is usually twice as severe. That's the part I'm in right now.
Anyways, I wanted to put that on paper while its still fresh enough that the paint runs. More later.
I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it.
Jimmy Stewart (1908 - 1997), in "Harvey", 1950
