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What counts as a life fulfilled?

When it takes four hours to pull your

head off the pillow, living up to ancestral

expectations is a wild dream that ends in

misery when your vision soars way beyond minor

accomplishments. Like Donald Duck, your thrusts

can be thwarted by a monk with a stick, your desire

vanquished by shutting down your entire life off

a chance meeting at a sandwich shop.

So you pull a self-proclaimed rebirth to start

the process again in an attempt to have a

career that the home-folks can cheer about.

It's a war. Normalcy versus creativity, manic

against depressed, one woman pitted against

another, and there you stand, crying, as the

police ask with whom you intend to go. You

know your insanity led to all this, so you have

to trust others to know you are on the right path.

"I accuse you of a wasted life," the judge

proclaims, and all you can do is cower and shrug

while humming Smokey's "everybody plays the fool."

It's a greedy, needy life. The path to freedom must

be in helping others. There has to be a way, no

matter how hard, to function beyond the boundaries

imposed in a bipolar way. Get out and beat back the

temptation to quit, grab the best possible offering,

count your blessings, discard the past, and proceed.


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