if this manic phase will ever end.
There was a time in my life when I embraced such moments, likening them to a double ride on the tilt-a-whirl, with the screams and laughter that made me feel invincible.
As I get older, however, I find that they are less like the tilt-a-whirl and more like the crooked carnies that tried so desperately to take my last dollar to win an unwinnable game.
They promised prizes beyond what I could imagine but ultimately, I went home with a stuffed snail or some other hideous thing.
I did once, with awe and childlike levity, win a Loverboy mirror and figured that my life, at that moment, was complete.
Being fifteen, however, has its limitations.
As it turns out, the junk I brought home seemed a pretty steep price to pay for a piece of “Made-in-China” crap.
Today, I found myself re-reading a lovely piece of work from a friend. If re-reading was all I was doing, then there would have been no wrong, but I wasn’t just reading.
I was counting.
Words.
Syllables.
Lines.
How messed up, I ask, is that?
Beautiful words written that I counted simply to find a piece of sanity, and, as if counting weren’t bad enough, found fault with.
A line missing.
Who am I to tell the immensely creative people in my life that they have left a line out?
What if it were intentional?
What if it is part of the creative genius?
What if they think I am a jerk at the most basic of levels?
What if they decide that, after all, I am not worth the trouble they take to try to understand me?
Who, beginning with myself, could blame them?
They wouldn’t be the first to give up on me, but, nonetheless, it hurts to think of it.
It is a wonder of wonders that all of my friends don’t simply forsake me when I get like this.
In this I-can’t-hold-a-thought-in-my-head-and-I-think-I’m-going-bats this.
It is a testament to their faithfulness that they ride out the storm with me, knowing that they may, at any moment, be struck by lightning.
I am thankful for them. I pray for them. I curse them with words that would make a sailor proud.
They know this and like me anyway; the why of that I cannot fathom.
Who are these people?
Oh yes … i remember … they are the ones who understand me even when I find it nearly impossible to understand myself.
They are my friends. They. Are. My. Friends.
I will be myself again soon. Surely this is a true statement for there is only so much a person can endure before they are taken, under police custody, to the nearest psychiatric hospital.
I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell and there is a song by one of my favorite groups, “Matchbox Twenty”, that says that very thing.
So it must be true. It must be.
Just give me some time … a bit of time.
And some patience, some latitude, some longitude and some leeway.
I won’t be this way forever and for that simple fact, I am thankful to a God who understands the way my mind works mostly because He created it.
I won’t back down. I will get by. I am unwell. I will survive.
I think that covers most of the song titles in my head … now, for some serious Wagner time because He makes me remember that being different isn’t such a very bad thing.
Until I am back to me, adios and God bless.
and the music shall set me free … 
A Photographer's Heart 