Of The

And after two weeks of complete sprint, I find myself staring and waiting more often than naught.  An internal image of being caught between heaven and hell, and my horoscope explicitly tells me how this is all a choice (like the stars know anything, anyway). Like my worries are decided lightyears away.

All this time feels the same. Two days feels like four weeks feels like a few hours from now, and it is all I can do to stop twitching, let alone fall back into psychosis. This wind that keeps pelting me with debris from a leftover thunderstorm doesn't help.

This cycle of manic high, anxiety-induced movement to absolute withdrawal is unfair. I constantly feel a pull of deja vu, this vibrating of two selves colliding against each other. Is this the critic-artist I keep blaming my identity on? Is this the left and right hemisphere of my brain? Is this just me, fighting to stay present, when everything else begs to stand perfectly still?