I have been mildly hypomanic for the last several days. I just have tons of IDEAS. And grand questions about life. About consciousness and God and evolution and faith and experience and purpose and epistomology and on and on and on. I am not going to get into any of that here, as it's not the focus of this blog. But I just want to run full steam ahead and research and ask and read and write and talk about the depth of life's meaning and how one can KNOW what is REAL.
Interestingly it is to these things that I have often gone when in a funk. Only then it is not exciting and full of possibilities, it is scary and dark and empty and alone. And there is still some of the terror of meaninglessness and unknowability that creeps in even now as I ponder these things.
But mostly I am just on edge, leaning forward, stomach clenched, eyes wide, jaw set, neck rigid, as I devour others' written thoughts, as I fiercely stare into my own mind, as the thoughts roll forth in unceasing rhythm, pounding away at the questions and whittling them into new ones, multiplying my thoughts on the shore of my consciousness.
It's exciting and annoying, this hypomanic state. It is creative, it is deep, it feels meaningful. For all its unproductive productivity, it is so much better than depression.
It's better for me anyway. But I keep pestering my poor scientist husband with questions like, "Do you think there are other sentient beings in the universe?" "Do you think it's morally wrong to eat animals?" "Do you believe God is relational?" "Do you believe that God exists?" "Do you think that frog stuck on our door has consciousness?"
He is a patient and long-suffering man.