The whirling wreaths of smoky light swirl and boil. I am in the midst of them, I am blinded by them, as my judgement and intellectual clarity are snuffed out by bad brain chemistry. Oblivion is all I have left. I strive for clarity and the ability to think thoughts of at least some complexity. Ian, one of my persecutors, stands near me and mutters curses and insults at me. Finally I weep, driven to distraction by this foggy mess that clouds my mind.

Then after an age the suffering lifts. My mind is suddenly freed from the necrosis that had overtaken it. It feels so fresh to be able to think, I shout with joy and dance around my bedroom.

I want to create a vast theory of my world, now that I can think again. I am gleeful at my newly found powers. Every little thing in my world can be examined and can inspire. I know, with a foreboding, that this clarity is only destined to be short lived, so I appreciate every moment of actually being able to think.

I play , urging myself to remember these happy moments, to create a reckoning of these little positive events so that when the depression returns I can know that there is some redemption. I stare into space just appreciating the presence of my mind. I rejoice in the simple feeling of "I am", which is powerful and nearly tangible. This new phase lasts for days, days of thrilling cogitation and restful contentment in the evenings.

With a transition that is slow and barely noticeable, my ability to think disappears again. In the new state I am forgetful and unaware, I sense vaguely that I am missing something, but do not know what. My mind, such of it as remains, flits from one vacuous semi-thought to another, there is no logical connection between thoughts, there is no clear path of development, I wander aimless and lost in a bland landscape of half-shapes, there is no I am, no clarity.

Like the dawning of a life giving sun the phase of real consciousness returns again. These shifts are proving to be cyclic. I am able to write, I am able to make judgements, I start to hate the cycles that are ruling, dominating me so intensely. I seek ways to preserve the time of lucid thought. In desperation I imagine drugs helping me. I guzzle down wine, seek out different stimulants to aid me…none work, though it takes me a long time to realise that. After more changes I start to accept the inevitable, these times of fogginess are unavoidable and I must simply accept them. I cherish my true awakeness when it comes, but perhaps like all things, it has a mortal lifespan.

Would I always have gone through these conceptual mood swings ? Was I destined from the first to these highs of clarity and lows of murkiness ? I do not know, as I remain unknowing as to whether these experiences place me at the bottom of the mental ladder, the scale of realisation if you like…or nearer the top. The contrast of these states of awareness is here in my life whether I like it, or whether I regard myself as enfeebled or not. But still, now the clarity is with me once more, I must revel in it and dance to its tune.

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