My mania feels like a fishing line pulled taut to the breaking point.
My depression feels like I am that same fishing line let to fall in a curled mess and tossed to the bottom of the sea.
My mania feels like omnipotence — the power of God — channeled through my neck, my spine, my limbs, and my eyes.
My depression feels like my failure to be of any effect, like I have botched things up, crippled animals, alienated friends, brought evil into the world.
My mania feels like I can do great things, that I have a destiny that will change the world — bring peace, soften stone hearts, make people live in harmony.
My depression feels like a hole that sucks in everything good, that is no place to hide from despair.
My mania gives me energy to glide up the last spine leading to Everest’s summit and dive without a bathyscaphe to the bottom of the Challenger Deep.
My depression makes me stay in my house dreaming dark dreams.
My mania makes me love all humankind — especially women — and spark with anger if the purity of that love is questioned.
My depression makes me the lover of my pillow, my sheets, and my blanket, a friend of the curtained darkness, the noises of the day, and the deep emptiness of the night.