Life has been difficult, and I’ve tread the razor’s edge of a rocky cliff; and so many times I’ve slipped, yet I’ve never fallen. I fear I will soon shatter and no amount of love or drugs will save me from the indubitable and unforgiving end. Hope screams and beats upon the doors of pallid perception to awaken me from this night terror I am convinced is my reality. I am hanging by a thread, and walking the razor’s edge; not because I fancy it, but because I am attracted or in line with the energy of chaos. Adamantly, I am frightened of my anger and the wickedness I possess. I know that I may do something heinous and there shall be no way out of a ravine as deep and dark as that. I may soon catch fire, and the water to put me out will only prove to drown myself to a vegetative existence that, however, does not get the glory of the sun, but the stare of artificial light. Thin as paper, and ready to be set aflame into to the everything of not existing…May I create a new pattern? May I decipher this dubious code and set forth into the saturated world a new man with wings none can see, but few can feel? Perhaps, with this change of heart and inert art; I’ll be free to depart to the end or the start. It will be a new pattern of living; of learning; of thinking; of feeling; of being. May I not be forever odd, but at last break even. Even then I might be satisfied. If I can just be even with the numbers and odd alone; I may not so often cry out in ineffable misery. There is Hope, it is sewn together with transparent memories and the old sense of self – a silver-lining gone grey with age.
Bipolar Opposites 1 Minute
Published by Bipolar Opposites
A Seattlite, Bipolarite-Proletariate with quite the Story View all posts by Bipolar Opposites