Freedom floats through rooms that need cleaning. All I want to do is have fun, but I blaze super fast with my chores.
All of my friends love me. This is because Mother and Dad gave me a luscious consciousness as my playground, full of all of the world’s beauty (& sickness), ready to multiply all of the world’s toys, and when I see that shimmering beauty, I think I can re-create it so other people who don’t see it can see it as plainly as house on the prairie.
I am of the diseased, unable-to-get-along generation of some kind. This is why the worst and ugliest hospitals love me, and all of the people in the hospitals love me and kiss me and smile as they watch me paint big pictures of worlds that couldn’t possibly exist.
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. 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.
Evelyn and I challenged each other to do a meditation on the nature of mania – see the rules, which I have conveniently broken, posted under V. 1
Her post should be up soon at Filling a Hole.