Pimples and Bipolar

I used to be always thinking, thinking, thinking. I thought about everything and nothing and all things in between. It was maddening as each train of though raced around in my head the end of the tracks not where in sight. It would always start small, like when I woke up in the morning and I was thirsty. It's an innocent thought, to be thirsty when you get out of bed, but before I knew it I was thinking about whether or not I wanted apple juice or  orange juice or milk. Milk? Maybe cereal then. Do I want corn flakes or apple jacks or oatmeal? At least a train gets to stop at the station and let the passengers off, I was more or less stuck there for the ride.

 Sometimes a train or two would run out of coal and the smoke would stop billowing out of the chimney, but there would always be another one to replace it soon. During these times, when one thought process replaced the other would I find my self staring, at a wall, out the window, at the work I should be doing, it didn't matter. All I knew was that I wasn't looking at an object, I was reading it. Reading the words that made up it, translucent, dirty, red, handle and with each word the pistons started on another train- my train.

Perhaps it was my way of trying to reclaim the twisted tracks that snaked and twisted their way through my mind. Even though it added more to the constant humming of the locomotives it gave me a sense of control. That's something that had become very rare and precious to me, control. Like a rare emerald, intense and gleaming, yes that's what I wanted, but what I got was a rhinestone. A cheap substitute to a priceless gem. It would make me cry as I stared at the wall, flat, orange, textured, because here I was making things worse just so I could pretend my rock was green.  

And then it rained. With the rain the tracks rusted and the trains were no longer making their swift rounds, instead the passengers walked behind the old conductor in a sluggish game of follow the leader. My thoughts had been halted to a crawl, or maybe a scoot, because I doubt they ever got off the ground. I liked the pitch black, because even my own train, which read objects was unable to roll. You can't read in the dark. Sometimes I wonder which I preferred, the tortoise or the hare, but I can never find the answer. Maybe I left it with my luggage on one of the trains. 

Now there's a monorail spanning above forgotten tracks that have become earthy flower beds. It's fast and efficient, zooming from location to location in a straight line. Never running out of coal or in the proximity of another train. It worries about the important things, like whether or not the boy I just passed at Target was cute or how many pimples I have. There's no smoke left to haze my vision and while I'm not sure how long it will last, I am going to enjoy this part of the ride.

BParrot BParrot
1 Response Feb 9, 2009

I battle too. I wish I was mannic right now