Reveries were once the food on which I feasted; rapturous flights of released romanticism, unthwarted identity, cultural connections.

Through various means, I am now rooted in reality and my own lack of skills in the daily acts involved in putting one foot in front of the other. Do I miss my days of dreaming and hoping and reaching for pies in the sky? I do. I was protected by them from my own defects, and transported by them to other places and other realities, and that spilled over into my physical reality as well. I traveled to places I would never have gone before, and fell deeply in love with one of them (the identity of which is likely to become obvious as I go along).

I’ve been diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder since those days of flight and dreams. I am confronted frequently with my defects, and frequently feel a lack of worth. (Oh wow, I really want to read this person’s babblings!) I want to write with clarity and truth, whether in prose or poetry. If there are flights, I want to glide; if there are lows, I want to tread water. I hope to mostly remain reasonably stable, and find my muse (again hiding, again shy) in that space.