Love with Bipolar: Glimpse and the Eclipse

Estimated reading time: 4 minutes

By Narinder Jarial (as Bopa Rai)
Love with Bipolar, Glimpse and the eclipse. When you have seen one brightness, you wait for the dark; in between, it may be a time of brightness or of eclipse, or of just ordinariness, when you are kept guessing. There is no rhythm to it, it is irrational, sometimes transcendentaln never linear Your poor loyalty has no chance of leaving, for that glimpse, that one spark of life, with which you can wait for the dark to end, That one uplift justifies all the wait.

To live and to love within the orbit of bipolarity is to be caught between a glimpse and an eclipse. Once you have seen one brightness—the sudden blaze of energy, insight, or ecstasy—you are left waiting for the dark. That brightness is not just a mood; it feels like a visitation, a glimpse of the eternal. It is so dazzling that it almost promises its own eclipse.

The interval between them is the hardest to name. Sometimes the light lingers, sometimes the eclipse devours it, and sometimes there is only ordinariness—a stretch of flat hours in which nothing announces itself. You are left guessing, always, whether the next turn will be fire, shadow, or silence.

Astronomy teaches us that eclipses follow precise cycles, that their recurrence can be calculated to the minute. Bipolarity obeys no such clock. It is irrational, sometimes even transcendental, never linear. In medicine, we call it disorder; in myth, we might call it possession. To live with it is to surrender predictability.

And yet love remains. Loyalty, even ‘poor loyalty,’ refuses to leave. For there is always that glimpse—that one spark of life, that moment when the world is unmasked and made incandescent. That moment justifies the endurance, even the humiliation, of waiting. The eclipse may be long, the ordinary may be unbearable, but the memory of brightness keeps you at the threshold.

In Greek myth, Helios drives his chariot across the sky each day, but the eclipse belongs to another logic: the moon interrupting, the shadow consuming. In Indian myth, Rahu swallows the sun, only to spit it out again. These are not scientific descriptions but human attempts to explain what feels unbearable—how light can vanish so suddenly. To love with bipolar is to live in that myth daily: a sun swallowed, a sun released.

And yet the glimpse is enough. The glimpse makes the eclipse survivable. That one uplift, irrational and inexplicable, redeems the waiting. If ordinary love is a steady flame, then love with bipolar is celestial weather—unpredictable, sometimes destructive, but capable of revealing a beauty so rare that it bends the heart to devotion.

Love with bipolar is never linear. It has no rhythm that reason can hold, no cadence the heart can learn by heart. You wait for the dark after seeing one brightness, and in between you live as if in suspension—sometimes glowing, sometimes eclipsed, sometimes enduring the dull ordinariness that hides its own menace. Each phase arrives without promise, without pattern, and leaves you guessing whether the next hour will be luminous or void.

Loyalty in such love is less a virtue than a captivity. You cannot leave—not because there is no pain, but because once you have witnessed the trembling brilliance of a single glimpse, you are willing to wait through every shadow. That spark is enough to purchase your silence, enough to justify the endless nights. It is irrational, yes, but also transcendental, as though the soul itself conspires to remain bound by one moment of exaltation.

So you live within a private eclipse, knowing it may break at any time, expecting nothing, yet tethered by faith in the return of light. For in that fragile uplift lies the whole reason to endure: the knowledge that one spark can reawaken life, and in remembering it, you can outlast even the longest dark.

• Mind and Miscomprehension
• The River of Amnion
• The First Pao
• Chess Game Insights: Analyzing Winning Patterns
• The Fifth Breath — from the notebooks of Dr. Bopa