recycled paper.

boredom undoes me, on the largest possible bloody scale.  i am ripped forth, and would happily invert my own body if it meant i would have some sort of stimulation.  i run slow without some sort of energy to butt my mind against, slower and slower, and as it sinks back, something inside of me moves faster and faster, equal and opposite, running away from whatever it is i am trying to do to sustain balance.

one of the earliest dreams i can remember was, as a child, being in a grey room filled with towering people, heads taller than me. i was short, and they were all long and thin, with leathery skin. it was a warehouse, and the air was grey.  the thing was though, they were all speaking in my head, in a room of voices that sped up, then slowed down, then sped up again. they raced against each other, and against myself, and i could keep track, but it was uneven and frightening.  my whole childhood, my own internal monologue would periodically reflect this, racing up, slowing down to a snail's drawn out pace, then speeding up again.

it was a precursor perhaps to being bipolar.

i don't dislike it. sometimes, i am frustrated at the fact it makes me question what i actually am, or if i actually am.  it's the lapse of reality; the psychotic tendencies of the condition making the continuum of reality a little more slippery than it is supposed to be. but my reluctance to accept the labeling of my mind's workings as nothing more than a fallacy, resulting from wrong synapses is fairly solidly linked to being told i was possessed by satan, and my mind again, was not mine, and was just an incorrect set of laws being incorrectly applied. only now, it's not god's plan, but a biochemical one, or something.  i think i can judge what i do well. i think i know when i am pushing things just because i'm bored, and frustrated, and wanting something MORE.  i think this is clear to me.

what i need, what i crave so much is that communication, that friction of mind against body against words against flesh, that connects on some improper level and makes me feel properly alive.  i feel the energy coil inside of me, and i want it to swell out and dissipate and take me on.  it's satisfied, partly, in words.  words and books and paper and sorting, and the fleshiness of language, and the communication, the movement of the words inside of me.  it is satisfied too, with risks.  i take risks not because i am masochistic, but because i get bored.  there is a vortex inside of me, and it swells out darkly, and hungrily, and i will push risks into it in order to feel it properly. 

people suggest that creativity will fill this. i need a few more though. i don't get like this when i have sex. creativity. intimacy. madness. warmth.  books. those things stop the push pull run.  

and i get fucking tired of being sensible. i chose sensible. i've chosen it so many fucking times.  i've resisted urges for drama and madness or even goodness and fun, over a safer, 'smarter' pathway.  i am here, in a city i loath, for a job that will take me wonderful places, and here i stay, feet itching, one step after another, trying to keep going, determined as i can be.  i need to write more, i know this. i need to exercise more. that helps as well. i need an outlet, a place, a force, a focus.  something to occupy the constant jittery feeling under my skin i get from time to time. 

and i don't care what is the supposed theory. i don't think it's just chemistry, i don't think it's just the fact that there's something that doesn't quite work properly in my brain.  it works differently. but the risks i take are often considered, often curious, often evaluated, and i either push the evaluation away, or i just don't care because i want to see what'll happen. and i just want to let go. i want a space where all these things i hold together can let go.  everything is constantly on a tight reign, muzzled like a wild dog, hungry, hungry.  i sit here, and i look so calm, and so neutral, but fuck, there's madness just inches away, and i get so tired of keeping it there.  day after day i do it. i cook. clean. try and sort out extra clothes. feed pets. cuddle bunnies. go to the pet store to play with the kittens because i worry they don't get enough love while they are waiting for their forever homes.  i get coffee. i jump in the leaves by the side of the road.  sometimes i go to the park. i look for snails for my lizards to eat, and i let them crawl across my hands.  i try not to drink too much. i watch Doctor Who. i keep it going, tightly, tightly. just wanting to let it all go.