stillfugue

I have read about psychotic mania. I don’t ever want that.

When I experience a lift in my major depression, the joy of living in a beautiful world like a normal human is so magnificent, it feels like mania.

Reflecting right now, it makes me think of the Taj Mahal.

Overconfident joy tells me that some god is inside me, and I can create the most magnificent art the world has ever seen, heard or read. Anyone could, but one must want to (like I do when I’m manic).

I am Picasso!  Seriously!

My doctors say it’s not mania. It’s normal. My medicines are supposed to create normal all of the time. They don’t. Doctors say it’s not science.

Right now, it has been so long since a lift, I forget what mania is, so I can’t write about it.

Sometimes I have moments of mania within the depression. These are dangerous, but some of them are good mania and I like those moments. Good mania makes my mind act like a furious race car in the middle of a dangerous train station with hundreds of trains chugging in and out of a giant marble concourse.

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Evelyn and I challenged each other to do a meditation on the nature of mania. The only rule, a severe rule at that, was that it must be between 160 and 200 words. Those of you who have read anything of mine know that I had to use all 200, and I did. Exactly 200. Here’s where it gets a little strange: I wasn’t happy with my first one because my contemplation was far more serious than it should have been, though the actual state does deserve serious contemplation. Thus, this is V. 1, and I created a V. 2, which I will post next, and it is also exactly 200 words. What do you know? I think Word does not count multiple words with hyphenated words and it should, so I may have bent the rules. I know I did with having a V. 2, but Evelyn outguns me with talent so badly that I needed some sort of handicap so there is no reason for me to feel guilty.

Her post should be up soon at Filling a Hole.