I write because I can’t sing and there is a song in my heart that you need to hear. I write the words others dare not speak as they would admit they feel. As if feeling is the worst thing in the world. As if being vulnerable is the worst thing in the world. As if there were any other way to live but through love. My creativity guides me. The sheep will call it bipolar. I call it brilliance. There is something wonderful about being mad. Something liberating and free once you step outside the boundaries of conformity. Once you decide to experience life for oneself and no one else there is beauty in everything. From wanting to kill myself in the shower Monday to feeling like I can move mountains on Friday-bipolar aint no joke, folks. It’s real. It’s alive. It is the fire the burns me as much as the water that hydrates me. It is fierce and hits with a vengeance. They sell its similar counterpart in the form of uppers. Perhaps why speed has never been my thing to abuse. I’m stimulated enough. Slow me down. I will take benzos by the handful and forget the nights but I never forget that feeling of calmness. Of being able to not have to think about everything. A calmness of my brain. My next calling awaits me. It is time. Time to share myself with the world. Time to make love to the hearts of strangers.