Afflicted by Exhilaration from Hyper-Intelligence, Reckless Self-Abandon, & Hyperbole

There is this feeling so god-damned lily-gildingly beautiful, so treacherously & infatuatingly magnetic, so staggeringly dark yet brilliant, that I fear [know] I will go insane, once & for all, if I continue to fail at expressing it [read: smother it with verbal/emotional/behavioural incompetence]. & There is a sort of event horizon surrounding the various hypothetical futures I entertain... beyond which there is no reality, no possibility--an inevitable event horizon stemming from the point at which the suicide factor falls into gridlock with the endurance/"will to expression" factor. When my capacity has been exceeded. Ergo, time is running out. & Of course, I refuse to be suicidal.


The confusion, I think, arises not solely from the notoriously ineffective translation process called articulation, but also from my internal schism. When experiencing the soul-slamming high of absolute reckless self-abandon & of glistening vulnerable narcissism, I am so totally enveloped, I do not recognize the magnitude of what is. Of course writing this is problematic [being that I am trying to relive it]. Only when I extract myself from the residual emotional strands & I retrospect does the true [read: glamourized] meaning dawn on me.

The thing that I need is an acutely perceptive external point of reference, or, in laymen's terms, someone who understands me fully [which by default generally coincides with a lover, with the lover]. & Which I have.


The lightest part of it, the shining gold narcissism, is so light & joyful, it feels like nothing; as insubstantial & necessary as air. Invisible because blindingly bright. & When recognized, when the true blazing nature of it is recognized, the repercussions are cataclysmic: love. Unbearably light.

Now, if you can imagine a shifting golden-brown that has streaks so dark, they resemble black more than brown--that is the dark part of it. A messianic tragedy of the heart, often self-destructive, & downright destructive, to the point that self-loathing starts to seep in from the periphery. Black humiliation that fuels the darkness further. Only abated by the slaphappy golden waves of cathartic lightness.

The perhaps more troubling aspect of this emotion is that it is in fact one (1) emotion. A glittering happiness that breathes in the pain, a troubled joy that sings the darkness. & It is my imperative [albeit chosen] Modus Operandi when facing the worst perils, the head-reeling drunken sorrows, & the bliss [always the bliss].


Now, to escape that horizon.