01. Bi-polar bears

Something fell in a thump sending the shivers across the sheets of my bed as if I were a boat amidst an ocean - some ocean unknown, formed overnight, flooded me as I lay in disbelief of a climate change.
Writing is slow. The time it takes to type in a paragraph - my body seems to let go of the anger and anxiety, it seems to unwind, even if for a short moment in time - that instant between hitting the key and a moment when the disparate thoughts come flooding in again. That instant is treasured and adored like a newborn child.
Something else resounded in a dull thump, ripples in my sheets and I'm floating away again, from the twilight of the dream to dawn of the new morning that brought snowflakes to my window sills. He was arranging something on the bed as I slowly woke up. I thought it would make more sense to pretend I'm asleep so I rolled over the sheets like a lazy cat, stretched myself while keeping my face covered and away out of his sight and pretended not to notice him shuffling the clothes around and stuffing them into a bag. Tears were welling at my eyes.
I actually loved how he ever so neatly fished all his socks out of the drying line as he was leaving, not touching anything that is mine, this maniacal precision still haunts me. He left a t-shirt, a sweater, a pair of pants, socks and a pair of shoes - a shell of himself .

***

I twisted and turned around my apartment, it felt like a whirlpool for a while, then I paused, prepared my breakfast and sat down to write. Sipping on coffee I could fold the words to my will and sentences came out smooth and enveloping like a hot bath, somewhat Sylvia Plath-esque, but nevertheless soothing. I remembered I used to do that all the time - I used to write every so often when I felt a compelling need to spit out some existentialist phrases into the cold world wide web. Whenever the need came I did so, knowing that if the myriad of thoughts were to remain spinning in my head it would soon become some alter form of motion sickness and the solid ground would escape from under my feet, it would flee.

The ground was fleeting. The cursor was giving me a wink, somewhat impatient, somewhat perverse.
Though the longer I peer into the depths of a blinking cursor the lesser word comes slipping off my tongue onto the keyboard, so the trick is to type as fast as my stream of consciousness flows - and it is a babbling brook indeed, I wonder sometimes if there's such a creature - human, animal or machine that is able to keep up with what's going on in my head. And yet at times I may feel empty, clean even, of any thought or reason ...or empathy...and that emptiness is bottomless.

As the days pass by and I get closer to the bottom of that emptiness I feel it begins to lure and beckon from the depths of itself. The journey to the bottom does no longer seem like falling into a well, but more like discovering fresh water in the desert of thoughts and ideas that I once believed have run dry, with only difference that the fresh water is not in some dreamy green oasis full of twisted pathways hidden from human sight, pathways to which only a beast isn't a stranger, pathways that lay beneath leaves of all shapes and sizes, hideous yet exquisite, so gorged with moisture they fume peculiar aromas of burnt coffee and cardamom. The fresh water is at the bottom of the emptiness, and it's so dark down below that even mosses don't grow here, but does it really matter? The journey is there to be taken, whether through the winding paths of leafy wilderness or to the mouth of the abyss.