And now a little secret. A tale told out of school. Something I share with everyone else who has my illness. I loved it. It felt great. I mean really great. Why else would so many Manics refuse to get treatment? They get hooked on their highs. Can you remember the moment in your life when you felt the very best? Was it the day you got married? The day your first child was born? The day you scored the winning touchdown for your high school football team? Remember how you felt. Now double it. Keep going until the settings are turned up all the way to ten and your nervous system is buzzing like high voltage wires. Every pleasure center you have is glowing, you could burst into flames at any moment. Now add a few more elements. You’re incredibly strong, incredibly smart, and your energy is limitless. It gets better. You’re totally without fear. That tiresome little voice, the nagging conscience, is dead. You don’t care who you step on on the way up because you’re not coming down. There’s a separate set of rules for you, you’re a Greek god, lightning explodes from your fingertips.

Okay. Ready? Good. Let’s get to it. Time to drop the needle in the tracks and separate the soul from the wax. Decided on a trip to D.C. do you see? Hang around with friends, formulate a plan, check in with two kittens I was grooming. Made calls, set dates, packed my papers up, blueprints for the life I was designing, rocket Metroliner down the northeast corridor to the bacon of industrial democracy. Straight to the tail of the train for a joint, watched the rails whip away, like a pair of shiny serpents parallel. Over, I thought, it was over, and overrated by me, the life I wasn’t living was over, glossy Metroliner, limos would be next. Everything awaited my arrival. Sat alone, train mostly empty, or partly full, depending on perspective, as is the case with everything, gazed through glass at the green scenic smear, felt the electricity percolate my blood, girl came by, said it was her seat, said she’d only gone to get a soda. Automatic gentleman apologies. Second thoughts, minute thoughts, of hours spent together in secluded, romantic b and b’s. Kiss, don’t telephone, don’t television. Asked her could I stay and she said, wood eye? Struck dumb stunned and amazed. Beauty so exquisite that it pained me, looks that were the fortune of a noble family, inherited like chairs by Duncan Phyfe. Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong cheekbones, thin nose, pouty lips, something almost tough in her persona. The body couldn’t ever be as perfect as her face, but it was, especially the legs. Probably in her thirties, but dressed for an exclusive boarding school, crisp white blouse, suspenders, culottes, black watch plaid. Central casting fantasy, magic realized. How could I survive a life where dreaming made it so? The mettle I was made of was tested by her legs, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

When will we believe the awakening is real? She deigns to bridge the sinister heap and her heart is pure like crystalline obsidian. Then I ask her in hushed tones whether she will beg forgiveness. "Why?", she asks. I reply with a smile, "For caring, Chicken Little, for caring."