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Monarch Butterfly Effect

by Kwang Arnzen 2 months ago in coping

The Annual Cycle of a Bipolar Artist

She landed on the windowsill gently, as if clockwork each year. I pulled on my strewn about clothes and rested my head on the windowsill. She never moved until I took my eyes off her, always reminding me of a day I had not seen.

The night before was a dark one, with a mind as full can be. My attempts at school all failed after dropping out two years ago. College never felt in the cards for me. I had never been in a relationship that ended amicably, and I cannot recall the last time I called my friends or family. I had no job. No money, no direction. I called these insomniac nights my luna-scenes, where moon-filled walks and thoughts about life fill up my mind. And there I was, playing the victim as I normally do, fantasizing about winning the lottery and finding that next step in life.

I had been walking for some time now in this scintillating darkness, and the wind whistled a somber minor-esque tune into my head. The white noise of a car sped by, and the last of the people from the subway were journeying their way up the street home from late shifts. The sun always set so quick on these late wintry days, so they hustled to avoid the cold, dangerous city streets; and here I was, simply waiting for the morning so I could sleep again.

The snow on the ground was in its final stretch as March was just around the corner, but it still retained a nip to it. It kept me awake as I walked for hours, whistling along with the wind. They soon became lyrics, and I spun a devilish pity song about the inertia of these nights.

I pulled off my jacket and lay in bed for what seemed like hours. My guitar lay on my chest, as I worked to find some chords that would be perfect for the melancholic lyrics from the wind.

Neon cities underneath the pity, the weight of my petty swoon, to find a meaningful tune, to find a meaningful tune. Darling, these luna-scenes under the moon.

My neighbor knocked on the thin walls. "Be quiet!"

"Sorry," I whispered back, embarrassed. "I'll be quiet."

Dullness engulfed me in the silence. A quiet riot. I lingered on the whati-fs like Shel Silverstein. I laughed, because sadly, it is one of my favorite poems. I quickly muffled my laugh to make sure my neighbor did not hear me.

What if I do not find my purpose? What if music isn't what I'm meant to do? What if I never find love again? What if I never go back to school?

You know, stupid questions like that don't help anybody. Soon the weight of my mind put me to sleep. I woke to the wind again, maybe about an hour later. I looked at the clock. 4am. I pulled on my boots and coat and walked out the door again, warily tiptoeing down the stairs and out so as not to wake my parents or neighbors. It did not matter though as a car horn blared just down the road, probably waking the whole block. I call this block the writer's block. It is both a pun and a reality. It is both where I go to write, but also not to write. There is a nice little park bench for me to write and observe. A man I have seen maybe twenty times or more is doing his early morning jog before work. He does not see me in the dark, but I know he is there because I hear the quick pace of his feet. I rewrite down those lyrics. I look up at La Luna.

She's almost full tonight. Maybe a few more nights to go. I look back to my journal and turn on my flashlight. This was my first song in almost two years. I wanted to complete it.

Neon cities underneath the pity, the weight of my petty swoon, to find a meaningful tune, to find a meaningful tune. Darling, these luna-scenes under the moon.

I wrote the next chorus and verse pretty easily, but it remained its depressing monotone self. Once I got to the bridge, I was stumped. I gathered my things up, and walked back home. The clock read 5am. I was cold. Really cold. I gathered up my blankets and quietly boiled some water for some chamomile. A few spoonfuls of honey later, I was out.

I normally keep my blinds down, but last night I forgot. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe it was not. The solar alarm clock hit me right in the face.

She landed on the windowsill gently. I pulled on my strewn about clothes and rested my head on the windowsill. She never moved until I took my eyes off her, always reminding me of a day I had not seen. I looked up and saw the sun. I pulled on my jacket, but I took it off as soon as I got outside. She was there with all her friends, and she landed on a marigold.

Had those marigolds always been there? Regardless, I said, "It's been a while. A year?! Hope you've been well."

I finished my song. Second one since the beginning of this annual monarch butterfly effect.

coping

Kwang Arnzen

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