Being manic

I’m sure it’s rooted in self confidence. It’s got undertones of risk taking and instant gratification. It simmers in my chemical composition.

Like some kind of potion drunk by cracked lips.

It makes my heart beat faster and faster as it begins to creep across the veins.

Once it’s in my blood stream I can start to feel my behaviour changing.

I loose direction, making decisions that I would never normally make.

My eyes widen, they search and find meaning in places that sober eyes remind blind to see.

My blood begins to curdle with lust and again my eyes begin to wander.

As the elixir finally consumes my being, I race more with every word.

Darting to and fro, hunting for instant gratification while I weave down rambling rabbit holes.

Just as my ideas out grow my capabilities, the potion begins to wear off.

I plummet with force.

Exhausted and punch drunk from the intoxicating potion, damaged by poor judgement and failed grandeur.

My only remedy is sleep.

Constant and deep.

As the vapours waft away to nothing I find myself unable to stand.

My eyes no longer seeing through manic lenses as they struggle against the monstrous weight of their own eyelids.

I become overwhelmingly thankful for the sobriety yet all the while remaining acutely aware that, while i rest and recover, somewhere inside me another batch of this overpowering potion is slowly brewing.

Waiting to once more wet my chapped lips. Breaking my sobriety once more.