Sometimes he grabs the sink, feeling like his stomach is committing painful suicide somewhere in his lower abdominal region, while something powerful and visceral is also being activated. It is panic and excitement and chemicals to the brain that make him feel so incredibly overwhelmed and - and twisted and twisted free. Maybe he can steal the reins of gravity and fly straight to success. Maybe he can accomplish anything. His mind screams in adoration at the idea in sparks of blinding highs.
Always these thoughts occupy his brain, and take the place of brain cells. He sometimes catches himself about to something incredibly stupid, rash, unwise - mad - and so far he’s succeeded in restraint. Always he looks reads little ‘signs’ and he does a little backflip somewhere in his ribcage and his hands grip things too firmly and breaks glass and watches himself as he steps on them in a daze. It’s like he’s going insane, he can’t think about anything else for much longer, and each time these thoughts come and intrude into his fragile, overexcited heart, he can almost see stars on the back of his eyelids. Strong despite the city lights, he sees them, and reaches out for them, and he can almost be a part of them -- It’s kind of severe.
(Once in awhile the world turns into blotches of dark, confusing colors and he fears; it goes deep into his bones and gives his brain the tremors. He fears his dreams will not be reciprocated and all this hope and high will be fruitless and he will end up somewhere he doesn’t want to be at all, that he will not end up anywhere and at the end of the day, he will still be sitting around, staring at the sun, waiting for himself to happen. Once in awhile he chokes on the vomit he stirs up, drowns in the blood that he bathes in, and dies in the darkness he enjoys as a sentimental treat. Despair, he anguishes, and paranoia too.)
He can’t wait till he really self-actualizes, but he feels like there needs to be someone else. Someone else who can assist him in one-man evolution to god, and be his fellow geniuses. It’s kind of a hunger, or a fire, that asks him to chase for another starving soul and roll them in gasoline so they can burn together like a guitar in all its glory. He just wants to be glorious, as glorious as he can think of himself, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes that his every 11:11 wish.
(He knows somewhere in the back of his mind, a nighthawk tells him that he’s going to fall, he might fall, he might never get anywhere to fall, but he might just break down and he might just rust over and he might just not want to be redeemed from the madness he’s risking. The bittersweetness is growing and it will pop --
but it’s better to burn out than fade away.)