I cry.
And then, when I go to work, which unfortunately, I have to, I cry there too.
I try to hide it, but sometimes, it is obviously, due to the questions and odd looks, evident, for I am questioned.
Or maybe mentally assaulted is the better description.
Have you been crying?
What have you been crying about?
What’s wrong?
Why yes, I want to say … I have been crying nearly inconsolably for absolutely no reason at all.
None.
I have broken things that I don’t really care about, deleted things that I did and find myself on the outside of everything I hold dear to my heart … but that is simply a byproduct.
Just forty-eight hours ago, I was manic and driving 90 miles a hour to keep up with my thoughts.
But there were no tears.
Only euphoria.
But now, I cry just to be crying.
One jag after another until I have a headache and nothing, other than red and swollen eyes, to show for it.
I cry at song lyrics, at the rebuff from a friend, because the light turned red, for the homeless man I saw at the intersection.
I have no control over it.
I want to, but it is beyond what I am capable of.
For whatever reason, it pisses people off when you tell them you don’t know what you are crying about.
What?
Do they never, ever, ever cry without a reason?
Really? Do they actually expect people to believe that?
Don’t worry, though, not everyone who swings between euphoria, ecstasy, and suddenly in the dredges of despair but still thinking in terms of the ecstasy factor, is nuts.
A few of us hold a golden trophy with our bipolar names on it, but not everyone.
It isn’t contagious. Remember that.
It.
Isn’t.
Contagious.
And the oddness of it, in itself, is, in that in itself, there is oddness.
They want to know why.
There isn’t a why.
They want to know what about.
There isn’t a what about.
I used a gallon of the “it get’s the red out” Visine today. A useless fluid that burns the eyes and does little to hide the fact that I was crying about nothing in particular.
Why is it so important to have something to cry about. There are moments, such as the one I am currently in, that I cry because I simply can’t stop it.
I could make up stuff to cry about, but I shouldn’t have to.
I should be able to maneuver though this stage of my, what should I call it?, psychosis? without being put on the spot to try to explain the unexplainable.
Maybe I should start telling people I have a hangover. Maybe that would be more well received than the response of I’m not crying about anything in particular, I’m just crying.
Because I’m nuts.
That always goes over well.
I’m nuts.
Does that soothe your mind? Always have been and have little hope of being otherwise.
Sometimes I cry.
Get used to it or get over it.
If I am very lucky, it will only last a day or two and I can go back to being simply, though wonderfully, semi-manic.
I can assure you, it is much preferred.
I don’t get to the crying stage very often, praise the Good Lord, but when I do, I’m there.
Nothing that can be said, no pats on the head or uninvited and unwanted hugs can change it.
It is what it is. Those who feel this way from time to time know, without a shadow of a doubt the sheer amount of courage it takes to move from one minute, one hour, one day into the other.
The rest of you … I will always be an enigma and I am tired of trying to explain it.
It is what it is and that is simply the way of it.
It doesn’t change who I am because this, accepted or not, is who I am.
If you know me you already know that.
If you don’t, you never will.
No hard feelings.
Tomorrow is a brand new day.
a light shining in the darkness, whether in day or night, is a grand thing.
A Photographer's Heart 
