Well, the day started out decent, but I've quickly gone downhill again. (sigh)

There's a mild thunderstorm coming through right now, dropping big drops of tears onto the pond, creating spiral ripples to echo across it's surface. Whenever it meets another spiral, chaos ensues. A lone duck swims quickly across the waters to get to the feed dish. His face is so white it looks like a cartoon ghost. He doesn't match at all ~ blanched white face, brown and black stripes all over the remainder of him. And two dayglow orange feet to complete the ensemble.

The leaves of the chefalayra trees wiggle in the rains wake, trembling. They are Dr. Seuss trees, belonging in a storybook of some sort ~ maybe with the Truffula Trees. The grey of the sky ahead of me looks like gunmetal, while sunlight skirts around the edges of it here and there. They flirt, the two of them.

The day's magnolia blossoms are quickly starting to fade to beige instead of their morning's pure white. Soon they will curl like burning paper and turn a disgusting brown, leaving only their fleeting memory.

The deerfly dart back and forth in front of me, looking for bared skin to feast on. They seems so menacing and strange with their orange and green orb-like eyes, and their bite is nasty and stings long after they have taken from you. I don't know how many I've killed today, but obviously not enough ~ there's still more.

The whirring of mourning dove wings lets me know of their arrival on the feeder. They're beautiful with their muted rose-brown color and the iridescent neck and big black eyes, but they're aggressive towards other birds and hog the feeder. Often I shoo them away so the cardinals can come feed. A new brood of them just showed up, not even with full plumage yet. They are not afraid of my presence, and I am glad for that. I love to watch them.

As I watch all of this surrounding me, listening to the crack of thunder and the sound of wind gusting around the eaves, yet looking at sunlight grass and trees, I wonder about the absurdity of life. So many things are paradoxes, seemingly in complete discord with each other even though both are true. I am a paradox. I feel as if my spirit were split in two, ripped in halves by the bipolar disorder. One half, the one that is inhabited by my unwell thoughts, chases the one that contains the "well" me, both to antagonize it and yet try to join back together, as if becoming one would fix me. I say let them be their separate selves ~ at least I can identify them this way, knowing who's voice is calling to me by what it speaks of.

Today the two fight like there's a war to be had. If they had guns they'd kill one another, and I'd be left with nothing. Or worse, the bipolar, depressive side would win. My life would truly be a burning hell.

I wish I could purge myself of the illness ~ burn out the deranged DNA and rewire the chemical receptors in my brain to work like they should. But there's probably much more to it than that. I only have an inkling of what this thing is and yet I know what it's capable of; making me a raving lunatic or insane enough to want to take my own life just to get out of it's grasp. It's claws go deep, piercing organs it feels like, should be bleeding to death inside. It goads me to hurt myself; to cut, to pinch, to bruise and punish and hope that satiates it's horrible appetite for abuse of myself. It's almost like a demon, only showing itself at times, the rest of it hidden beneath the surface.

I'm afraid to go beyond the surface. I'm afraid of the water. The light doesn't penetrate down far enough, it breaks into shafts that dissipate more with each long inch. It's the void that I have been avoiding for so many long years, the emptiness that stretches vast beyond the surface tension, the pain that I do not want to touch. It lures me though, back to that place again and again.

I won't go there today.


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