Here are some pics of the room as it started.
With the base coat.
I've been coming to terms with the idea that I may be bipolar. That's my diagnosis, along with a few others. Bipolar II. It makes sense. Some of my behavior can absolutely be described as hypomanic. I don't see what was bad about it, I didn't make so many bad decisions, I just worked like there was no tomorrow, which oftentimes was a possibility. I have depressive episodes for sure, and mood stabilizers seem to be helping with those, I haven't had many days where I just can't summon the willpower necessary to get out of bed.
The disconcerting thing with bipolar disorder is that I'd never get better from it, that I'd have it my entire life. I still don't fully believe it, but I suppose the fact that Lamictal helps is proof enough.
I've been considering writing, more seriously than usual. I'd like to write a novel. I think I have a voice that would be worth listening to, opinions that would be worth sharing, and a life that has given me enough experience that I can empathize with all sorts of troubles a character may face. I wouldn't do a biography, because that's just lazy and my life is too open-ended and long-winded. There are just too many significant details, it would be hard to whittle down to one story, or hell, one theme. I've lived too many lives, and all of them have been extraordinary in their complication.
I wonder what I'd write about. I think in symbols. I don't know.
I'll think about it on this bus ride. Maybe I'll get back to you :)