Much could likely be written favourably of the year 2017, to date, no doubt, for there must be folk who have found inspiration, unearthed roots in the soul garden blossoming above the soil line with Eden petals¬†of True Romance, whilst many more have survived the ravages and carnage of the global war machine marching upon once fertile, prosperous land and leaving mass graves…Indeed, there remain many reasons to be cheerful and thankful. Still…my own path has been a damn warzone of mild trauma, by the reckonings of our fluffy realm here in the West. Through which I have found more mettle than many had assumed I possessed, which is fine and dandy, yet I am now more concerned with the balancing act I have conjured. For as the smoke of the most recent explosion clears, I see with more bothersome than satisfying clarity, that my substantial progress, is presently blinker focused on work. Which is not enough.

There feels and can be seen a herding of my volatile nature. A mechanically automated message of LIVE IN A STRAIGHT LINE. DO NOTHING OUTLANDISH. SEEK GUIDANCE ON YOUR TV, LISTEN TO THE BOSSMAN. GO SLOW AND STEADY. HERE ARE THE SCRIPTS.

Which to follow, in some ways, undeniably helps me to avoid trauma. It also helps me avoid LIVING.

You see, I feel something deep within stirring when the wind howls, I feel something calling my name as the waves crash against the shoreline, I feel something vital and dangerously Right when I proffer a novella named Nosferatu with the leaf from my garden which looks far from astonishing, yet to touch, is newborn kitten fur…to the most curious creature in my daily maze.

I have understood why the majority wish to travel in a straight line, to avoid at all costs, any collision which causes commotion, for good or ill. There is little I can or wish to do about this, other than to suggest the very opposite, more than this, to demonstrate the same. I am wholly unable to conceal myself, and see no value in changing my ways, unless I am to accept and nod my head in obedience to the herd and tacitly respect and fear the shepherds.

Despite my sporadic tendency to promote the search for true love and adventure and fighting the good fight as the only worthy journey, I am becoming merely a corporate jester who increasingly baulks at the banal I see myself approaching, accepting, even embracing…for I know this is not a life well lived.

The newfound balance of vastly increased sobriety and in turn, lessening of my proclivity to delve tremendously deep into the well of my own and our shared abyss, is unwaveringly improving my health, yet its mainly physical, and the physical is connected to other elements of my essence…Our spirit – by which I mean not religious beliefs, but our drive, our fervour, our passion, our seeking of everything that means something – matters so much more to me than is widespread appreciated. I listen to people speak and laugh, but who say nothing and feel nothing, its all on the surface…an exchange of superficialities. And this extends far beyond those finding safe common ground in the kitchen at work, as they share hollow compliments of a dress or new hairstyle, and I am sickened by the measured in milimetres depth of their shallows…This has come to include many of those latching onto an Society Approved ‘alternative’ posture, with set beliefs, set phrases, set styles…they are the same foulest of folk which are Legion. Perhaps worse, for they spout Independence and Left of Centre Leanings of a platform they learned about on twitter…

Speaking in a language where every word is the enemy of the other language spoken by too many others around me, proves taxing, so I try to speak their language, say their words, yet I can not lean further than offending people. And I am well aware that my ‘effort’ to bridge the divide, upon examination after the fact, could well seem to some rather prickly….I hear talk of the latest episode of The Bitchorette, and I proffer…

‘I dont watch it, but know enough to know they are scum…well…no, sorry, I dont mean scum, as in real scum, I mean less interesting than blades of grass..and yet…to be fair, the blades of grass which all look the same…are more pleasant…’

When I find long faces, silence, people leaving, I feel hard done by. Wonder why they feel the need to be so mean.

I realise sometime another day, that there is a chance they misread me.

The Wind and the Waves can be blamed. Yet unless I am fortunate enough to find a creature of the wilderness as the Judge, that will prove a paper thin defence, when the surges of urges to make every moment count for something which moves me beyond the straight line of conformity written and repeated as mantra from a Rulebook for avoiding Thriving, find purchase in a human shaped droid who succumbs to no ill from my steady unraveling, though senses an opportunity for progressing their own slimy trail to more gold, to more corporate security…

Many people I considered kinfolk have revealed themselves as cretins this foulest of years. Every revelation has hurt…All connexions, were felt as bonds, and every slicing and dicing of these bonds which reached to my heart, have hurt…However, a balance of suffering is found through my global research routine, an eagerness to try to understand the world of people. A cold shower of Horror washes over me. And I revert to that long repeated adage…Seek the Beautiful, Seek the True Romance, Seek Adventure, Seek Inspiration, or fight the good fight.¬†

The very least I must aspire to, is found in the above.

I must write for the WINd and the MooN…and seek solely those who mean something to me. I’m seeking a pulse in the veins, hearts which beat madly, those who say only who and what they are.



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