When I’m manic, writing is a blessing. My thoughts flow faster than my fingers, so I can use that to slow the brain-loops down as I record the stream of crazy. Sure, it needs editing later, but it gets words on paper. Ideas jump on top of each other to be represented and heard.

Depression is a blinking cursor on a mountain of white empty space.


Later, I’ll do it later.

Later never comes.

The ideas are there, but none of them have enough value.

Why bother.





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