it gets better at the end of the mania.

it’s good to hear richard frost - he is a capable man and i feel better knowing that he is on my side. i hear he does good things for me, though i cannot be sure what. i sometimes know when, usually i have done these things while asleep, hopeful of that dreaded day when my life would sync with the real world and i would have to listen to these dripping faces bring homes to me, buy me all my stuff and write “fuck” needlessly on my walls. i covered up these curses with pictures of a mountain covered in snow, a pine tree and the aimless footsteps of a lost alpine climber. this is happiness, i am sure. somewhere within the dramatic pause we have a crystalline hope for me to cling to, all the madness that follows in just for the letters drawn. there is a mild morning for me, some place that i can become. i have the letter, i have all written them.

high above me there is a crate with my name on it. this much i am sure, as i am far below the direction paused by these letters. there is a home for me when i approach it, i am nearly always in it - even when i leave i am drawn back to this place, hopefully to encroach upon my humanity, needless and dark. these letters are for you, water - high above the left for dead space that haunts my mind. these shapeless motives, they cause my wonder to cease. i play for the dead otherwise, some sober light within my place. i am glad i am sober, as the grand wonder of this world ceased while i drank myself into dark oblivion. this is important at my age, i suppose, and just something that came with graduation into adulthood from a seemingly endless youth. this is a face of altruism, a placid light that drips on me, and hopefully i can emerge uninhibited to join myself on stage tomorrow. 

this is not the multiple personalities that i am suspected by conscious beings of having, as in fact - although i sometimes cannot recall reality to any degree, i am always this same person. as these are insights into schizophrenia, and the dim realities that a running away sort of person is singing for oneself to understand that i do exist living my dreams. this is sabotage - these are the little ones, these unspeakable ails that haunt my living dream. i am, perhaps, always awake and telling myself in my blind that these walls are the only world, that this reality i experience is the shared one. this is to make myself feel better, but this has gone on to long.

i have, in fact, recently prayed for myself. this is a strange thing, but i must belong here - as these are the hard facts. why do i care what i am doing, if i am functional while i do it? i suppose i want to see some sort of fantastic reality that i am creating. i want to exist with the rest of you, in your world. but it is true that i may have, through these wanderings found a sort of enlightenment. what is it, you wonder. it is just to be in the real world, with the rest. to react properly to the experience that i am confronted with. to move from one situation to the next and just react as best i know how. to be happy. just to be, and all else falls by the wayside. this is the enlightenment that i sought: just to be happy and safe, a sage just existing. i suppose that is what everyone wants, yes?