I want things I'm afraid of having. I'm afraid to chase anything at all. I can understand seeking small objectives with small investment paid for smaller gains. Anything of greater commitment is a farce. I am not whole. I do not trust myself for I am as reliable as the wind. I am consumed by the heaving pitch of momentary passions. The revelry of heated enthusiasm is here and gone like lightning. The brilliant instants of euphoria illuminate the shadowed whole. I am undone. I never thought I'd play the victim. I never thought I'd hide behind the cloak of my illness rationalizing my hardship as a fight lost before I began. Yet I've been hiding all along from the fact that I'm a puppet and bipolar holds the strings. My psych shakes her head as I beg for the answers meds offer. No magic act exists to banish this beast. I'm lost and the only light I see comes as the final price is paid. I'm too weak to stomach more pain than I already bear. I'm caught hoping for an exit I lack the strength to supply. I laugh at myself unable to speak of my wishes. People respect suicide, who respects those caught on the edge?