Torn Between the Realities.

Buffy has been missing for a time now. My dad theorizes it's due to my absences. I don't.

I have whistled deep and long, vibrating through the foothills far and wide, the dogs in the distance replying. I have called her name and familiar words. I know it is not right.

Without her, my life is empty and incomplete. I love her. My sweet cat, Buffy. Mi amore gato...

But though I cried more than once for her, though I sob as easy for her as I would in recalling the vivid memories of my mom's long and torturing death (for us and her alike), my hypomania keeps me inhumane. A chemical difference. So many chemical differences. Anxiety and cyclothymia. Or bipolar, who cares, it's the same thing but cyclothymia is less extreme and a name less well-known so people don't freak out.

I feel too inspired and it's poetic torture in my heart and soul. Too fucking poetic, my mind is always this silken-spun song of rhyme and rhythm. It's like too much of a good thing...

sigh.