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February 5, 2018

In the storm of emotions

I’m sitting on the bad with a brown blanket thrown over me. The blanket has sleeves; actual sleeves which make a kind of hybrid between a classic quilt and a bathrobe form it. I’m leaning against a pillow shaped like chubby, soft, deep red heart. There’s my dear feline friend lying on my legs and, a bit bellow, my second cat, Thea, is sleeping calmly. I would almost miss out the fact that, besides the mentioned blanket, I’m covered by thick eiderdown with light-green sheet decorated with big white flowers. Perhaps they are daisies. The computer I’m writing on is placed in my lab.

I’m feeling warm, it’s hot here. I don’t care about it that much, I’m not thinking about it. Thoughts concerning wholly different stuff fly through my head. There’s a pile of them. My brain suggests a highway full of cars. They are passing each other without looking at all the vehicles next to them; they are barreling at an incredible speed through the countryside. My thoughts look just like these cares. They are speeding like a lightning somewhere in my head, they are furious, rapid, one’s shouting down the other. If thoughts shined in a color, then my mind would be a rainbow.

I’m not into anything. In spite of it, I have to, indeed I’m forced to, carry out at least some activity, no matter how negligible it is. I have to write for instance. Not because someone’s asked me to do that, that’s my own brain who doesn’t let me take a break for a while. The surplus energy which constantly accumulates and accumulates in my body simply has to go out somehow. I can let it flow by writing which serves probably as the best vent for me. Other options exist too, there’s for example drawing or reading of The Little Prince which I’ve held in my hands a hundred times, but even though, the beautiful story of the pilot and the child that he met in the desert one day, still impresses me. In the state of emergency when I’m completely unable to concentrate on anything form that, making puzzles, considerably false singing or aimless walking in the room back and forth still remains. The most important thing consists in releasing that inner tension, that wave of energy that almost suffocates me by its mightiness. Nothing of that is any special after all; I’m bipolar, I have a mixed episode of bipolar disorder.

I feel like I’m chosen to get this world rid of discrimination and injustice because I’m one of the few who do see any discrimination and injustice at all. I’m also one of the few who is not indifferent toward this stuff. I want to fight for better tomorrow. It seems to me I can. Sometimes I feel like the whole world lies at my feet, I’m sure I’ll become a writer, a scientist and an artist, that I’ll definitely overcome all difficulties on my journey. And then, out of nowhere, I get the unpleasant painful feeling I’m just a mistake of nature, a genetic fault. I’m haunted by an intrusive touch of all overlapping vain and pointlessness. I would rather the universe didn’t exist that live in the universe which neither doesn’t have any sense nor we, as people with limited abilities, can’t ever find it out. Everything, the whole world, bothers me. Everybody makes me angry, including myself.

My head is often so full of various thoughts and feeling that I almost can’t speak. It’s like having a gate inside which all these thoughts are trying to get outside by. However, they stay stuck in the door in the final consequence, unable to move so they can’t be pronounced.

I’m lost in my own emotions. I’m almost drowning. I feel like a seaman sailing on their small boat through a turbulent ocean. I would have probably already drowned if I hadn’t seen a small, but still bright, light of a lighthouse in the distance. That lighthouse is a hope.

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