it was then, or now, when he appreciated the chaotic fits of manic that had come to define him. when he tucked away in the shadows the less exciting half of himself, more able in those instances to articulate the energy and delusion which prompted such action and focus. it was an intricate balance often thrown off by appearances, Jekyll and Hyde became difficult to distinguish. no one was ever let near enough to see the internal battle, it could be perceived perhaps, but his silence would always make it difficult to understand. years of masking his feelings left him but a caricature of himself, a carefully curated vessel of tastes and imagination, whatever he was publicly was just the precarious shell. the repression became clearest in his moments of darkness. solitude in these instances was both a blessing and a curse, he sought anything to dull the emptiness of these periods and as such they were littered with vice. he poured over books and paper in order to distract himself, words dripped vulnerably as he explored things buried, rummaging through cabinets of memories and experiences. reflecting as he shut out the world. it was all a part of his process, a necessary rebuke from the intensity that would creep back with the sleepless mania splitting his months. one wasn't possible without the other, they played at equilibrium, both in some way, wishing for the other.