Fascinating.

As I do myriad laps in the pool of self-reflection, like some sort of eternal penance, realizations slowly dawn on me. This is the most recent: my problem is not clarity (at least, not just clarity), but fascination. I am easily fascinated, and when something captures my imagination, all of the energy in the manic portion of a manic-depressive's personality catalog is fully available. It is truly a wonderful feeling, where literally all things are possible.

The downsides are that the sensation is temporary, and its end does not simply indicate a return to normal, but necessitates that the pendulum swing fully to the other end of the mental and emotional spectrum, where depression and malaise await. But once this is identified, the fear that it will never lift is largely nullified, and that alleviates half the concern involved. I digress.

I think that my trouble is that I have trouble staying fascinated. Take stand up comedy: it is one of the toughest gigs a person can undertake. It requires some sort of talent, and it helps if you have a distinct world view (solid grasp on reality not required). Both of these are hard to fake. Also, it involves public speaking, often listed as one of the top fears among humans. Slather on top of that that the things typically spoken of during the public speaking mentioned above are the most personal, fundamental perceptions a person can develop, and you have a recipe for one daunting undertaking, my friend.

So all of this perceived downside makes for one hell of a thrill ride, and the apparent cost of admission is to grab a mike, check your ego and try not to puke until your set is over. What a rush! Until... there you are, six months, two years, or however long into your daring endeavor, and you've exhausted your primary lineup of custom-tailored oratory. Your momentum has been consumed by all of the unpaid performances, late-starting open mikes and the occasional bombing inherent to all stand up wanna-bes. Your fascination has fed upon itself as much as it's going to, and ground to a pathetic halt.

Enter our hero.

What do you do? Well, if you're not as self-aware as you thought you were, you try the old remedies, and try to kick-start the old magic that used to be a given. Failing that, you whine about it internally and externally. None of that shit works, so you just... coast for a while. Lacking a better alternative, you free fall, and try not to think about what you've lost.

Then you have some minor revelation (caption reads: "Present Day"), and hope to the Jesus you don't believe in that you've at least identified the problem, if not its solution. You realize that you'll have to renew your fascination with the "task" at hand. It shouldn't be too hard - as with any art, there is as much or as little challenge there as you choose to seek. Yes, getting on stage was a hurdle, a hurdle you've now cleared. Yes, finding some shit that total strangers are likely to regard as funny was as much magic as science, but you've done it. Now though - now comes a bigger challenge, engaging creative potential you'd never considered before: now you must imagine new ways to flagellate yourself. You devise your own challenges, and surmount them. You must find ways to impel yourself towards self-imagined horizons, summoning not only the strength but the very desire (this type of dramatic phrasing is necessary, I assure you) necessary for the journey!

Making people laugh is hard enough. Making people laugh via a specific technique (one liners? prop comedy? music?) is a more focused goal, and therefore more difficult. More fascinating. Why, it's almost enough to challenge a person. Some people thrive on challenges.

And then there are half-assed adrenaline junkies who wouldn't call it thriving, but something basic and necessary, to be sure.