Jenga

I can’t go crazy again.  I am building a pyramid, a massive tower of poorly balanced bricks.  Every relationship, every friendship, rides on this.  I cannot go crazy again.  Everything would fall.

Rumi and Hafiz.  All the references to the Sun are what does it.  I am pushed back in time to two years ago.  

Wild with joy.

I never felt it again.  Perhaps I never will.  To feel it would destroy my tower, now balanced through months of careful stacking.

Everything used to make perfect sense, although to everyone else I was chaos incarnate.  Everything I do now is distraction.  I am a flicker on the water, refusing to look down into the depths, refusing to look up into the stars.  I am simply here.  

The beauty is gone.  Only a half glimpse per month.  Almost every sentence begins with “I remember”.  Sloppy happy.  Sloppy all over the place happy.  I learned to cook without recipes then.  Throwing everything in a pan and flipping it with one hand, pan-seared dissaray.  I excised control from my life.  My goals were somehow larger, I loved more, I lived, more. Everything was more.  

Heaven.  I tasted hell as well though.  It was one or the other, I had no concept of in-between.  Anguish and Euphoria intertwined as vines all over my fragile body.  I was shaken daily.

Being crazy taught me everything.  I have a deathgrip on sanity now.  I keep my brain locked up.  I refuse to remember any key or password, I spend months trying to forget the past and where I’ve kept it.