...hello, I've waited here for you...

....everlong...
...out of her head she sang...

It's been a long time since the soul/mind complex was thrust into the furnace of mania, made malleable, unpredictable, in fierce currents and unimaginable heat. Yet it's another day in the blue: the melancholia persists, unabated. It has been weeks and weeks, it seems, since it came, and it has not departed. I embrace them both, mania and melancholia, though it gives me little pleasure; self-awareness become a two-way mirror in a dark room.

The technical term for this profound emotionally charged state is dysphoric mania. And it is its own kind of heaven/hell dichotomous complex - seemingly limitless mental power; uneven physical stamina; unpredictable emotional and psychological reserves; the sense that I can accomplish whatever I put my mind to; the sense that I will fail at whatever I attempt. Hopelessness; restlessness; euphoria; despair; hope; agitation; anger. Can't seem to ride an even sea; it's all storms and tidal waves.

...down with me....

I have dreams, which I enjoy, but I wish did not affect me. I wish I could enjoy them like art, like a story: an encapsulated experience that has little or no potential. Like looking at "The Last Supper" - it is what it is. It will not change. One may look at it and enjoy it, and that's that. It cannot hurt one, nor physically take any action. A dream, on the other hand, can motivate, can encourage desire and longing, can make one reckless and productive, can promote hard work and unmitigated disappointment.

I don't know how to slow the complex down, and I feel helpless to mitigate the effects of this mood.