Manic Phase

My hands are trembling. It’s about to begin.
Slow and predictable, the waves vibrate the ground. The entry is innocuous enough, like a distant bass rumble of a party 3 blocks away, but it seeps inside. And thus begins the delight.
Wait, why would delight be anything to run away from? It shouldn’t, I suppose. But the aftermath is; see, it all goes downhill from here.
The swell of the lungs, the euphoric feeling of perfection, of nothing in your way, living in this moment. You want to sing (and you do) but fake, synthetic bleeps fill up the room. And you realize how fickle you are to get carried away so easily.
The huge parade bursts in your mind, of clowns and divas and elephants juggling fountains of gummy bears. And when it leaves, the barren, depressing horizon prepares to stare back at you.