Like an Indian brave

I'm setting out again like a young tribal offspring questing. Not lost in the wilderness, but gathering the space within me by running through the night where my dreaming self has cried before. Now my tears of euphoric desperation mingle the worlds of my dutiful self and my seeking self.
As I run through the night my long hair gives me a horse like quality. In my running sound-the dark enhanced slap of my barefeet against the footpath, I find a spur. I can't stop running.
I've fashioned a note for my girlfriend. There's a simple red outlined heart there somewhere. In this state I'm a sucker for potent symbols. All their synedochal power, harnessed from the memory's lapping force against the plane of consciousness, collects and transmits to me the same way that... There is no same way. It is the most powerful concoction we take. The combination of mind and reality, the fuel that fires art.

Manic is a feverish activity. A malaise of the mind where the gaurdian of behaviour who stands watch in our brain has left for a cigarette. Normally he uses a sieve to catch our fantasies and sloughs them off into a dish that will later be shaken and tossed to use for dreams.
As he drags on his cigarette the manic mind is overtaken by the fantasy. That's why periods of lucidity can occur while manic. The guardian returns to do his job, but not for long and as things progress the breaks get longer. That's why later that day I can give a coherent explanation of my actions to the police when i am found outside my friends house with an axe ( I was just going to chop the wood which of course had to be done right there and then)

I stop outside her house and deposit the letter. I arrive but feel no sense of destination reached. There is always another mission to be done. The thoughts race from idea to idea and before i am finished on thing i am already thinking about the next.
It's three am in the morning. The streets, a backdrop for cast of one, are mine. Its too late for the returning late shift and too early for the departing early.
With the thrill of the night in me I set off again. A man in a security van picks me up on the main road. He sees me dishevelled and barefoot and takes pity on me. For me, it is a adventure with a denizwn of the night Perhaps he will teach me his crafty ways. When I am hiring guards for my personal royal guard I shall appoint him chief of transport. In awe of his grasp on life, his dominion over the seedy side, I sit beside him and bask in his glory.
He's just driving home.