Saturday Morning, Flipping Realities, Jim


Saturday morning, 50 boy-pushups on the pier, and beach running. Dancing palm-trees and air in the ears as I was forward and backward swinging on a children’s playground. The fun of morning loneliness,  my 87 pounds on a swing seat, feeling as light as a feather.
Jim’s “you are psychotic, I cannot figure you out” shattered the serenity of rustling palm leaves and crashing waves. His texting threw me from trance to the hysteria of his never-ending I-need-to-know-what-is-on-your-mind. The message got me pensive.
Psychotic, wow. He kept telling me I was bi-polar, I kept laughing in his face, he kept getting pissed, I never cared.
With time, I learned to accept my mood drops as the part of one of my countless personalities. Then, I started catching the signals of my upcoming mood swings, I knew the time they would occur, I knew when the reality would flip, and how long it would take to get back from seeing the world through the lens of gloom or ecstasy. Gradually, it got way too old and boring to follow the mind games, and I just stopped paying attention to my mind. I quit forcefully evening up my moods since I did not care any longer.
The Madonna’s “you only see what your eyes want to see” made lots of sense. The depressed personality chose to see the world through the despondency of poverty and fast-food, the anxious self was able to find drama even in the bliss of winter sunsets. 
Then I discovered a bunch of other personalities and stopped locking myself in the hyper-hopeless box. The mind could create anything from happy to horny, from pensive to doomy, separate personality – separate reality with own rules and regulations. I learned to take advantage of the Buddhist “what we think we become”, choosing the personality daily like my laced panties. I juggled the realities having fun when I wanted, knowing that they were fictional, that everything was fictional, that there was no real self, that I did not exist.  
Speaking to Jim about it made no sense, he was way too immersed in his money-making rat-racing circle. Greg and Adam were more existential, they understood, but it did not matter, nothing really mattered that quiet Saturday morning in Florida.     

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