It
weighs in on you—the constant flame, to feel this illness; the blessing is
insights; the curse is the ante—the sore rotation—of thoughts and winds, of
spiritual friends, of more illusions. It lives eternal, a crack in the core, a
vessel within a vessel. They call it mania and depression and highs and lows
and medicate the process. We speak not of secrets, to feel alterations, where a
psych rarely smiles. The eyes water to think it, and think it to water, this grandiose
illness. We’re sightless, and seldom seen, to make sense of chaos; and born to
live, through this raging death, the breath of this tension. The blanket is
cast; the shadow is free; and the psych is playing pretend; but what to ask—of
something so gray, to feel the esoteric. I must intrude—through sheer osmosis,
ever to pay attention; and I must perish, through sheer osmosis, ever to break
free. The mountain is steep; the climb is crucial; the mind is walking. We chat
and pause, to feel affects, where a psych morphs. What is this vision—as keen
as wits, this bipolar dimension; its haze and grays and pills and chills, and
unspoken dominions? I know a lady, to suffer depression, as close to split as
heaven and hell. We nourish a thought, the graphics of illness, displeased with
parents; but more the love, to forgive in sections, to live the wills of fragments; and plus the psychs,
to play us numb, as they gather research; so I journey, to search every
crevice—in part a detective.
It
soothes in lights, to torment through minds, to challenge every certainty. I
tried to avoid it; this thought of interruptions, this web bent on chaos; but
time broke free, the depth of heartache, this constant monsoon. I finally see
it, this inner contrary, a segment of this life.
