Flight of ideas. Night of nothing.

What was my beginning, will be my end. Alpha, omega: mania.
I was born a mistake. I hope to die a diliberate. Her medication
flowed through me. What treated her, mistreated me. What served to
curb the malforming of her mind, deformed my body. I got the chemical
in me, and a hoard of bad memories. Good thing I no longer hold on – I
take the free ride down the broken track. It’s as bad as you choose to
make it – you can manifest the “depressed” and sink in the “wishing
well.” Yeah, I wish you well. Harnassing the energy keeps me fit.
There is mundanity and mediocrity, and anarchy. I live in the gap,
though zombies try to pull me in their pit. They try and define the
walk I take on the line, with morbid curiousity. You can’t qountify an
endless flow, or qualify the abstract. I don’t “bore” the art, I
excite the reaction.

Others will attempt to pry apart the words with their jaws of life. As
something of an adult now, I continually search for the solitude to
numb their attitude. I believe silence and primal urge to be an
unyielding truth. If you cut yourself, see the blood leave you, bring
the violence. If you cut the silence in half, more silence. Youthful
exuberance injected with misfiring seratonin levels; I want to fuck
and “fuck shit up,” after I lecture you on Platonic ideals. The price
of higher intellect is just that – we intellectualize until my
intestines want to fall out of your eyes.

I am Bruce Banner, then The Hulk. Think of the mania as your personal
super-power. With that, it can be used for good, or evil as easily. I
would not think of this mania as an illness, but rather a catalyst; a
worked-out body to be embalmed with lithium and a host of non-descript
pharmapuiticals to keep the beast at bay and make you sweat? How fun
is that? Her kidneys failed and her teeth fell out.

My muscle comes from the strengh it takes to navigate through years of
face-plants taken upon crashing down to the terra firma of melancholy
reality, juxtaposed with assesions toward greatness and immortality.
You need a little bit of insanity to do yourself and the lucid dreams
justice. It’s your favorite song, place, and person on repeat. It’s
where not only the ends, but potential begginings, meet. It’s where
Brody Dalle and Bettie Paige makeout, where they play the music so
loud, and your aunt wears makeup like a clown, where your uncle kicks
your door down to say this call is for you, where your mom goes to the
Monroeville Mall to set her credit score on fire, it’s where all the
boys and girls want to score, and you mumble some nonsense about a
spoken word tour. It’s the “shit is on fire” show, and anything goes.

The weaker ones will use the adrenaline to attack, and throw you under
the bus, LIKE A frothing-at-the-mouth animal. The better of us will
give you a good show and send you home with a smile. Henry Rollins
smeared his prefrontal cortex accross the stage for decades, and the
people cry for more. Spalding Grey painted with words until he was the
story. Then Burton made a film, and gave him permission to end the
mission. Off the mortal coil he went. And I’m still manic, and hot
with my blood a boil.

Picture a woman made of clay, suddenly caught in the rain. With each
step, she is made wet – she hardens, but she also falls apart. She
endures, but her parts crack as they dry. She never forms properly
again. A genetic predisposition lead her down the path, but a trigger
shot off the bullet that blew away her ambitions and exuberance. They
once traveled hand in hand, but that’s hard to do once you’ve slashed
the wrists that bind the cells you’re locked in. I keep going on the
manic trip because I was given a free ticket on the brain train. You
put the medication into your blood, and kept my lungs stunted, so they
had to shoot me up with steroids. I don’t know where I’m going with
this, but I know that I have known far too many people who have been
bitten and infected; the moon goes down, and they feel the change like
that were-wolf creature. I know that if the mania monster kicks up
inside me, the worse I will do is get jacked up on caffeine and walk
the slick streets. I will write it out, rather than fight it out. How
is it a surprise to anyone that they attacked me, threatened me, and
dissected every word, that now, I keep my mouth shut and move out of
the way. I am not cowardly, rather smart. Why waste the time, and
excert energy, absorbing their weakness. They do not speak to me,
which allows them to infer and assume all they like. There is a better
culture out there, filled with better people, and I’m one of them.
I am still young, and already I know that trite conversation, and
forced confrontation is of no interest to me.

People seem to think they’re going to live forever. I keep hearing
“you have time,” but the only thing a young person is gauranteed to do
is grow old – that is if they do not die, by their own hand, or
someone else’s. On the upswing now – I’m like a morphine drip without
the itch; flying with the angels, nagging with the bitch. Ragging to
the rich.

To realize the strength;
the soliditty of solitude is such an asset.
Love too often breeds paranoia. Seems sick.
I want to be with you, and here we are,
but I believe I have felt the deepest lonliness in being with a women
for nothing but
shallow affection. After the longing – when she is gone, I feel mostly
regret over what I gave away; the experience is just not chathartic
like i wanted it to be.
Nothing more painfully frustrating than being with someome, and
feeling like you’re speaking a completely different language. My
nervous system wants the touch, but my nerves can’t take the build-up.

Good strong mania breeds an invincability,
like being onstage and sweating out anxiety – playing with clay until
an unidentifiable shape comes to look like something exciting.
May as well live out the days. May as well bleach out the grays.

Tracing a line of time, waiting out the night. Writing a love letter
to the moon; an illuminated woman. Sometimes the sun need not come up.