In the coming years, Matt Norman will release the Black Dog Journals as a way to bring understanding to the condition that he faces every waking day. Bi-Polar isn't understood in society like it should be. This Journal (book) has been written during manic episodes as a way to put thoughts into writing so that people can see inside the mind of someone with Bi-Polar. This is Matt Norman's depiction and many people have different feelings. This should at least introduce Bi-Polar to a society that continues to be uninformed...
It wasn't really the first day I could stand out side and feel the sunlight bleeding through my skin. But I felt like I could fly today. Today was the day that I decided to make the most of every second, the most of every moment and sound. Today was the day that I wouldn't feel like an angry dog any longer. Today brought the opportunity that maybe others could feel the power to fly like me. It wasn't a feeling, it wasn't even the day... it was the sun that told me that if the worst of all horrors was to come true today that I could fight the fear and take that true step into prosperity and give it my all. Today was my day, my day to fly.
But then, oh then, it was a tragedy of full proportion... My wings were clipped, my spirit soured and my sun weltered away as fast as I could blink the words SOS in morse. It was today that borrowed all the energy from days past in the feeling of hopelessness and again the moon became closer and wind more damaging and the sun just didn't give me the rays I felt I deserved. If for any reason my days would last longer than today I know I could do better, be better and not face the consequences of every action and all possibility. I never knew humanity could be such a dark but wonderful place. The heart of my soul now bleeds with the sun, bleeds with the wind and takes charge of the ever present stormy change that cohabits through my mind in a destructive pulse of pure anxiety and free flowing blood of desire, want, need and belief that every day wouldn't be the last.
If the children sing and the angels fly today then today will be the best day. Today could be the very best day. So what of those children, what of those angels. Is it instinct that they take flight on such a day or is it luck that the drugs of life push them in the right direction. Who could imagine the true sense of my being when all I want is the feathers to fly, all I want is the full pleasure of indulgence to be normal, to be happy, to be free like the angels, like the wind and more than certainly like the sun. I live with the black dog and the dog seems to feed on my frustration and my feeling of less than perfect.
I want to tame the black dog so that he comes only once or twice during the best days instead of being led by me every day through the grass and the weeds of a chemical brain frenzy of fear, disappointment and the true effect of life beginning life all over again. The black of this dog is dark and coated with pure fear and energy. How does one change the coat of free hair to be coloured by more positive rays of light more like those that exhibit true life and true existence in what I see as the feeling of good versus evil. How do these thoughts provoke any change in my own mental behaviour when all I see is the teeth of evil fixated on the indulgence of one's own self destruction.
A limp trail of destruction seems to loom. It looms in shadows of my own dedication of feeling and truth. Why is it then that these suicidal animals take a hold when I'm least expecting them. They grab and rape at my own existence of being human, of being normal. You read, you wonder why poetry comes through when all you are really reading is the story of zaps and sparks moving through a brain not like your own. Jump, drown, inhale, progress toward death and you'll find that the black dog doesn't follow but waits behind for the better day to emerge through what I see as darkness eclipsing life.
Yes you see this as a described sense of feeling but for those that live with the black dog you'll see this as the honest need to fulfil the truth of what it is to have a lead hanging around an animal to take it everywhere you go through every obstacle, through every day, waiting for the anger to finally show itself. I play poker as a game of surveillance and wit and keep the ace of spades as a reminder of the shovel of life and death by my side. Spade, shovel becomes the sign of death, burying me in my own cemetery where know-one dares to tred. I take pleasure watching and listening for that mistake so that I can unleash the black dog to prove my existence. You know what I mean. You have your own black dog to watch as you play. You see what I see if only for the ignorance and prettiness of those that don't see it. You carry your ace of spades through the dark alley's, through the warm blizzards and always come out of it feeling like you've made your mark. The truth is that destruction lays down behind you because you see that ace as something real as others see it as unreal or funnily zero.
The likeness of the sun and the green leaves falling in the off months show that you've made it through a full season of life. To others they see the boredom of an existence that maybe they didn't realise they would face so many seasons after they graduated into the the rough and ready World. But you, you know I see it differently.
Let's play for a while. Let's feel the feelings of the average, the vulnerable and the misfits of today. Let's feel the passion that is felt when our pockets are full of cash and pleasure when the truth of our end is that of just a memory of feeling into the future. Our past dictates our future and that is why as confused as life is, we feel intimidated by reality of others living their life through no means but that of a killer dolphin swimming in a pool of blood, food and boiling water. We know that the dolphins will eventually stop feeding but do they? I think they would consider a feeding dolphin as a survivor not a threat. Where you and I see it more as a temple of life. A life that can take the form of anything and everything even if we are the only ones that see it and survive it.
We as a race of strange triangles, meaning those of us that have three sides, consider the pool of blood as nothing more than necessity in our own race toward the black dog. We see it as.... I see it as the meaning of our own misbehaviours during that time we have left. Zero to one hundred in less than a century is our meaning but the black dog lives on. Never to be in a downtrodden shelter, never to be adopted out. He works hard to accompany all of us that don't have the power to push him away. He is the black dog after all. How can you push him away unless medically or suicidally we decide that being dragged by him is not an option any more. We are the only ones charged with the power to change but can't without the willingness of our own change.
You see a door in front of you, a real door with four sides, a knob and possibly a light shining from below it's identity. Those that know, realise that the door holds unimaginable horror and those that don't walk through the door without thinking of the possibility of wrong and misdirection. Put yourselves in my sneakers. I walk through a door and feel dragged back into the warmth of the black dogs presence. You walk, you feel, you wonder but never understand the fear of what lays behind that door. The black dog knows. He yelps at you and begs you to play. His play isn't superficial but loud and real. His bark shatters all need to go through that square into the life of many and makes it clear that he needs to still feed from you until you understand his need to be in charge. Sometimes though we all fall through that square and feel the sun shine down on us. It starts to feel warm and tender and it licks our brow as we walk more paces toward our goal. But we stop. We feel. We wonder. We peer back through the square still holding our black dogs leash until we are forced to surrender back into the black, back into the comfortable, back into the moment where we felt almost free. The holding pattern of flights depart and arrive as we wait for the next trip out of that square in the wall.
The black dog sleeps.
THE COMPRESSED WHITE DUST
I once believed that true evil wasn't those that killed or those that stole for food or believed in a devil that brought them to a bad insulting palace of red, but instead those that take for granted the true notion of greed. Friends, family and foe all take the high road when it comes to competitive feelings and notions.
You feel the difference with the compressed white dust because it shines a strange but fair light over the past days of unrealistic truths. The feeling of white becomes focused and can usually put you to sleep in a true slumber even though the dust itself is mixing with your thumps, your zaps and your utter destruction. The alternative is white coats and dead frogs. The simple side of evaluating truth is with the help of the magic wand, the fairy who brings this compressed white dust in a silver break free capsule. Don't except this favour, and forever feel the belonging you never had. The black dog can appear even with fairies and truth but doesn't bare it's teeth in the same direction as it used to. This then becomes the cure of any unleashed beast attacking the very flesh of your guts, your blood and your ethical belief in something strangely believable.
So you ask? Why greed. What role does this quirky word represent against all odds? Is it the word that best describes the actions of others who don't understand, or who don't want to understand? The answer is just yes. This is the word. The word that ties all others in the true sense of it's origins. I use this word commonly these days. I never used to but it has become the confrontation of facing what's right and what's ultimately wrong with our own society. Our society which is built and enjoys being fed off this word.
LOVE, LUST AND FAMILY
When dealing with dizzy heights sometimes you must learn how to touch down without incident. This touch down comes with a thud and a price if you don't find your way through rocky landing space. If you don't down your wheels in time you slide, stumble and grate your way down the runway of hell until it stops in a crescendo of smoke, dust and fire. Its then that you have to get back up on your wheels and try taking off into the blue again.
As I read back what has been written during those desperate times I wonder what will be written next. Stay tuned.
Black Dog Journals - By Matt Norman. Written during manic episodes of Bi-Polar.
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