Maybe this all seems melodramatic to most,
but to some of us, it's not so strange to believe that you're invincible,
or maybe even God herself,
and if not her, then you're certainly special in her eyes,
and you know something that the rest don't.
And maybe it's not so strange to feel
that you're nothing, of value to nobody,
that you've fucked it all up, completely irreparably,
because something seemingly inconsequential went just a little bit wrong.
It's at those godly times that it feels so fantastic to produce more and more,
with quadrisyllabic words pouring out,
articulating something that nobody has ever thought before!
And next thing you know, 15 hours have passed and you've forgotten to eat,
and you wish your fingers would just type faster,
lest any one of those brilliant phrases and sentences disappear into the ether!
[God forbid.]
But delusional or not--you are brilliant.
You know because everybody says so.
But sometimes, at least it's not so bad to be nothing.
The sleepless, famished, masochistic delirium brings its own kind of wisdom,
and the world is so beautiful and tragic, and slowed down.
And it's so very frustrating to know that you're seeing it alone,
that you couldn't possibly begin to explain the significance and all of the metaphor
in a tiny snippet of foreshadowing conversation that happened a week and a half ago,
which everyone else has surely forgotten by now.
But here it is, on a loop, with nothing and nobody to drown it out.
It makes you think that maybe there's some truth to the fetishization of madness,
that there's something magical about that extra 350 or so percent margin of human emotion,
the wider, more variegated prism through which we perceive.
