When you come down, it feels like someone pulled the floor out. The hoax is:
you were never in on it and you were never standing on top of a cloud. To come out of mania is to die a little. To lose your wings. To fall.
I had developed worse and worse habits from my isolation. I spent nearly three months alone with a build up of story and excitement and ideas and note cards and white boards and four altars and more coming. I had set my apartment on fire three times, had texted a man I didn’t know twelve, his friend about three, my friends about once every five weeks and I had no money, no dreams, and barely a job. I could never answer “what do you eat?” straight. I kept my habits locked in an attic, secret with tails. My hair was falling out from the bleach, anemia, stress, thyroid. I was unaware of everything.
“I live in a smoke machine.”
My frenetic pace had driven my body into almost atrophy from continual overuse. It was beginning to reject itself. Tears in the fibers built up and my pain hit a constant ten. Have I cried in years? The muscles were fed up, calves cut but tired. i didn’t feel skinny. I was always hungry.
I had no idea how to cope or move forward with the future. I was a little depressed and mildly delusional but here on Earth when I set the timer; began the pace. It was May 2, 2017 when I woke up.
But I had learned a long sleep stalk.
“the women who robbed the men”