Finding My Mind

I hate the days after it happens and I have to catch my mind. There's not a lot to do when you're waiting for it to come back. You have to keep your anger down. It's best if you don't leave your house. You find a few moments every day when things are lucid and clear. Then you read something, or maybe the sun isn't shining the right way, or your friends texts you something illegible and it leaves again. My mind is a horrible, horrible person. Personified, I do not think we would be friends. But there isn't much I can do without it. So I wait. And I wait. And sometimes when I think I can't take it anymore, my mind writes me a beautiful note that attaches to my tongue and refuses to leave until I write it down and I read it and re-read it. The days after it leaves are the absolute worst--but the small gifts I receive from my estranged brain are worth it. Or at least, that's what I think at the time, all the notes piling up on my desks, all the note cards sticking to my walls. I rarely use markers in real life, but without a mind I no longer care if it appears childish to doodle on things. And then eventually my mind comes back and I realize that I don't care for all the paper surrounding all of my things. My handwriting sickens me. I tear it all down. My mind is unhappy, but I do not care. I have caught it again. It is mine. When it leaves, it owns me, exaggerates my whims; in pursuit I am always more thoughtful. Fascinating. Nonsensical. But when I have it, everything is so much simpler. Fascinating. Sensical. This is how my cognition functions.