Saturday, 27 December 2014

A warrior awaits...

A shadow cast on eight, the sides of test and tradition;
A warrior awaits.
Darkness, strobes, music and noise;
The change in tune, the tact in tone, always calm.

Emerging in strides, superior and significant;
Bare skinned, bearded, braided and born.
Tattooed and untainted, capped and comfortable;
a celebration of confidence and indulgence in honour.

A right hand raised, an emblem to roars;
the approval all round answers acceptance to accolades.
The face of focus; fuelled, ferocious and physical.
Relaxed and relishing raucousness', a revelling renewed in expected conquest.

Surrounded by stalwarts, saluting strength in their standing;
the goal always glorious, the going a grateful gift.
A fighter famed on feeding fiercely on the fallow; a freak of fearlessness inside the fence.

The pride pronounced previous to participation, a publicity in positivity and persistence;
A prize proudly personal and a promise to     his own person.

Bold and brash, a champion challenging collective conclusions of characters contained.

The tribal triggering, tastefully targeting those testing the temperament;
trials always trumpeted, a top flight performer present not to take part, but only to take over.

Inspiring, the self-respected ruthlessness that raises rancour;
Rushing relentlessly in triumph, an Irish artist, flawless, fine-tuned and firm. 

Sweating in supremacy, selfishly succumbing to the stalks of success;
second to none in notions that nurture the needs of a nation,
No nonsense negotiations; 'I will win. I will win'.

The calculated carnage, the bellows of belief;
The narrow aisles, the path to righteous inevitably.

A warrior awaits, but not in the shadows.
The beaming light with 8 sides around him;
Ready, zealous and namely, Notorious.


Monday, 22 December 2014

I am me...

14 and unfree, chosen chains chasten character. 'The leader' longs to lambast the liking lovingness that lingers through my heart for others.
Beaten by bullies with a fist full of names; powerfully pounded by punches of insults. My internal inquest; investigating the inklings of identifying in earnest the true meaning of myself.
Questions, no answers. Hate hovers and holds heavy in my head. More questions, still no answers.
Fear follows frantically, furrowing and folding the freedom of facing friends. The flames of fantasy found in falsely feeling favourite. Please let me be liked.
They justify their judgments through jargon and juvenile joyfulness. Me just being me the jewel of their jest as I juggle  jibes and jokes that are far from funny.
Taken twofold by arms of anger as I'm ordered to lick piss from the floor; taken threefold at my talkback. I'm thrust by the temple towards the tin; my teeth are taken out. Their thunder throbs my thoughts and all.
Their laughter lives loud as I lay lame in length on the floor. Blood bellows, red and running, ruining my outside and in.
Bent, bruised, bloodied and beaten. Belief banished and my brain blackened by blame. This is my fault for being me.
I succumb. Let me sleep. You win.
14 and free, I straighten my spine and stern my shoulders. The sense of inner strength. Spirits soar as I stride these streets.
My music is me. Magical and moving; my mood manipulated at Marley's message: 'every little thing is gonna be alright'.
Rightfully revelling in resilience and resolve, as lightning strikes my run towards life.
Positive posture, posing public in proudness. A picture of persistence, personifying my personal placement amongst the crowd.
I stand on the shoulder of myself, shouting in success: "get up off the floor". I am me; leaning in love and longing to live. 1-0 up with a million to go.
Bullies, blaggards and burglars of esteem; the power of my person, a shield of strength shrugging your suggestions that you scream to shake my soul. Feisty and fired up in my findings of figuring the finesse of faith in oneself.
I am me. Tall and not taken. A character unchained. Justified not a joke. Loved and loving. I succumb to life. I'm wide awake. I win


Saturday, 13 December 2014

Til death do us part

The other guests have gathered, already comfortable and cosy. My arrival is subtle and silent. I'm welcomed through a varicoloured haze of satin and velvet as the girls catch all eyes.

They laud in veils and hats, dresses of great shade and tailor and heels of great height and shine.

The men look polished and groomed; ties and shoes of varied degree with grey and dark ensembles the common choice of uniform.
There's grins and glee aplenty; restless elation amongst a passionate people, all present and sharing the love and life of the newly-weds.

The conversations unfold; spiels on style and comments on culture. Gossip and rumour exchanged in pleasant and upbeat demeanor. There's coffee cups filled and champagne glasses emptied, each beverage shared with eats, both sweet and savoury.

The murmur of patrons, warm and wondrous. Their laughter reverberates, hording the great hall. The grizzled limestone surroundings tightly pillared from all four sides towards the white and gold marble above. The domed ceiling, incredible superiority in architectural purity, brought together by a marvellous crystal chandelier that dangles luminous upon the guests and wooden floor below.

A pianist plays in the key of family and friends bonding in chinwag anarchy. Laughter and stories, catch ups and formalities, a happy time.

"Doesn't she look stunning?" A statement of intent that requires my thoughts on the bride. The smiling bride. She swans beautifully beneath the crystal light tincture, her movement immaculate and graceful, a serene cloud floating in warm white between and beyond her guests.

She's beautiful. But she cannot take away from my own get up for the day which is equally impressive. The carefully chosen mask I've worn that provides
a smile. The humour I've hired that shows contentment and happiness. The body language I've bought that pretends I want to be here. Should anyone enquire as to my wellbeing, I'm fully prepared with deep pockets full of fiction and fable to ensure that the vision of my life at present is one of great ambition and desire.

I mingle and mix when its required, acknowledging in false approval my  peers own promise of progression and pride in life; confirmation of further engagements, houses brokered and bought, babies on the way. I smile at their stance, but cry inside as I succumb once again to my own self-hate and loneliness.

A moment in late afternoon is lost as I stare in abandoned regard at nothing. My empty intent is distracted pleasantly by the allure and elegance of her dainty frame. A bridesmaid cut in emerald green, a silk curtain fitted and flowing in decency and triumph around her as she manoeuvres barefoot around decorated tables and chairs.

She moves in several directions but slowly, an empress of reverie whose looming shadow grows. Her long brown hair a flawless platted rope sitting gentle over her left shoulder. Her eyes glow in peaceful meddlesomeness, two circled ornaments of jewel blue awake under spectacular lashes and thinned brows.

A glance in my direction followed by a half smile from her painted lips suggests she sees beneath my mask and fathoms my lifes intricacies.

My stomach whirls in response to her indisputable bloom. I like her. Perhaps beneath the flames of my own flaws and self-loathing, there's a desire to love and live.

Maybe I could talk to her? Young girls have problems too, she might understand.

I shake my head, acceptance and convincement against the speculation that such a gentlewoman would ever like someone like me, such nonsense. My deprivation in living would never be inflicted on someone so pure.

These glorious notions subside by choice, I catch a clear view of myself in the mirror. I see everything. The trousers and blazer; black and dark like my everlasting mood. A shirt as white as the light I think I'll see once the noose tightens around my neck and a tie as red as the blood that may spill from my wrists when all is said and done.

Depression and me; til death do us part.

Monday, 1 December 2014

To the backdrop of 1000 heartbeats...

June 1996

The bell rang and school was finished. Liberated in body, but not in mind. Chained and still captive, ‘the leader’ owned me in the summer months too.

The days and nights gave way to games and loitering; football and ambling. The longer evenings a platform for finer youthful shenanigans, playing out until the later hours. As the sun lowered and twilight became, the old stables were a wonderful setting for lost boys to intrude and explore. Perfectly hidden in its entirety behind a great grey wall. To the left, a hinged entrance stood tall; a black steely gate, magnificent in capacity. The ideal challenge for dirty hands and legs to overcome. The gravel ridge three feet from the floor provided the easiest starting point to boost the climb the top. Then came the bolted U-lock; the next stage in angling a solid leverage up and over.

One by one we scaled to break an entry. The leader always went last: ‘I’ll keep watch in case someone comes’. A single street light cast an amber hue of subtleness across the darkening yard. We whispered and wondered about what game to play. ‘The leader’ said that ‘hide and go seek’ was the game of choice.

A splendid stage with hay bales and horseshoes; traps and carriages; barns and sheds. Six bolted doors, half and half, beautiful animals known to be grey, black and brown sheltered inside. Our feet trampled the dry straw rigged against the tarmac. The mystery and sensation, a maze of adventure in this forbidden courtyard under an empty sky. There was perplexity all around; bunkers for breeding; hovels for cleaning; troughs for food and water.

But one shed in the corner haunted me. A castle of intimidation. No amber shade reached this point; far away from horses that were heard, but never seen. The castle was small but huge. Black doors rusted and pinned with continuous shudder. One window pane to the side which was coaled and unclear, thin and veiled in dust and shadows. No view in and no view out. It was powerful. The castle pulled reigns and placed blinkers, I was scared.

The game unravelled and my turn to count came quickly. Face the pole with both hands over your eyes and count to 10. I counted. ‘1.…2.…3.…’  the silence broken by howls from the young, footsteps and shouting. Feet slammed the ground in quick succession, like racehorses gunning for the finish line. I was the finish line: “GRAB HIS HANDS” “GRAB HIS LEGS”.

Exciting screams led by ‘the leader’, all getting louder as I squirm like an animal trapped behind a door. I’m face down, fluttering in panic as I look to the ground. Pulled and dragged and kicked. I scream. I cry. They laugh and laugh louder. I'm suppressed to the backdrop of 1000 heartbeats. I don‘t like it. The more I resist the harder they pull, the harder they kick.

“Open the door quick”. The castle door creaks open. I get thrown and released, like a jockey thrown from a horse. BANG! The castle doors are closed. Darkness. Blackness. The bolted lock closed in my aftermath as their laughter grows. They bang on the door. They bang on the windows. I can’t see. It’s small. It’s dark. The stench. Oil and diesel I think. I might go on fire. I could die. I'm frightened. I bang hard on the door. I bang harder. My eyes are closed. I can’t see even when they’re closed. Tears stream. “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT” LET ME OUT!” I'm shaking. I'm scared.

“If you stop shouting we’ll let you out ye fat cunt” I stop shouting. The laughter and commotion subsides, footsteps lesson. They’re walking away. Where are they going? Let me out. I can’t move because I can’t see. They’re gone. They’ve left me. I’m scared.

My bitten nails file the steel, eyes water and flutter. Heavy breaths. Very heavy breaths. Dark clouds lower, demon dogs of desolation emerge from the blackness. Walls of worriment close on in. The panic animals attack; biting, scratching, tearing away at every breath. Archfiends of angst crushing my chest and breast. Heavy breaths. The prevention pulls me, tight around my ribs and torso. Brutes of botheration poking eyes and holding breaths. “I can’t breath’. The messyrs of misery prod and protrude through all that is already disturbed. Unwished away to an unknown place. A suffocating sauna of silence and stillness. Celled and chained in the invisible embers and fires that burn, chafing and charring the rational of straight thought and innocence.


Sunday, 16 November 2014

Life reciprocal

Acceleration eased and brakes applied. The car brought to a gentle halt. Handbrake. 5.10pm. Exhausted.

With the engine still running; the heaters hummed. The vehicle a shell of warmth against November elements. Rain tapped the exterior; wet bubbles and rivers of clearness owning the silver hatchback. The wipers swept the windscreen, a sodden squeak as rubber met glass. Inside, the windows steamed from smooth exhales. The radio played; the percussion of Springsteen resonant. So tired.

Career details; folders; tablets; pages. All occupying fingers and thoughts in bogus regard. Falsifying busyness and attention towards passed priorities and future agendas. Procrastinating. Timing. Appropriating the walk home. All in anticipation. The lights are on upstairs.

Gazing upward, dark eyes meet the rear view mirror. Blue stones letterboxed in emotion, roofed by thick brows expressing scattered notions upon a day gone by. A weary face. Bearded. Edgy. Exhausted.

The first glimpse will change all that.

Saturday, 25 October 2014

The effort is the reward

Deep breaths synced with my movement. My foot feature left as evidence on the trail behind. A light jog turned trot in the calmness of an autumn evening; the sun lying heavy behind the trees and buildings.The evening times rays shon over my left shoulder, silhouetting a long shadow flat on the course that awaited the light stamp of my legs.
It was warm, balmy. A night that rekindled a childhood holiday and the freedom and innocence that came with it. I tugged at my shirt, a work of sweat sapped the polyester against my body as the famous skyblue of Dublin GAA had clearly become a darker shade. The embroidery cursed my nipples as the damp material sat heavy on my back. Pulling the V-neck forward, I sighed with pleasure as a draft of fresh air liberated my flesh. The effort is the reward.

I looked to the right, casting little judgment on Dollymount Strand. The sight of everyday people seeking solace at the end of another working day had become a familiar one. Some walked their dogs, others strolled alone and just like myself, some challenged the coast at a finer pace by running. The brown sand lay bobbled and used along the beach; footprints and tyre tracks aplenty. An empty black sack sat half buried beneath the sand and an empty milk carton sat upon it rejecting the breeze. I’m often curious how these things end up where they are.

I wiped my brow and powered my nostrils in an effort to win some air. I began tackling the sand dunes in earnest. My favourite part of the run. The sea teased the beach with delicate waves upon the flat land, the tide working somewhere between being halfway in and halfway out. I‘ve claimed this terrain as my own. I know it well. A regular jaunt of freedom since I was 16. The winding track. The vertical impositions of nature. Having already taken to the roads and streets, a further 20 minutes negotiating the varied dunes followed by the gorgeous setting of St Anne’s Park presenting the direction of home.

This is the escape. The effort is the reward. This run never failed in feelings of achievement and goodness, a smile etched in duration and completion on any given night. I never regret a run. In battling the rising dunes and the strands of long grass that obstructed, all thoughts of ambition and desire fill my brain. Great thoughts. Good thoughts. Jobs. Goals. Career. Football. Girls. Writing. Family. Friends. Life. Wonderful.

Towering on along with these meandering pleasant daydreams and determinations sweat spooled down my forehead. Droplets stinging my eyes as one forearm met my face like a hardened sponge; soaking up the welcome residue that matted streams of lengthy hair to my somewhat glowing face. I need a haircut. I pinched my nose to wipe away the beads of sweat that hung delicately below the bridge. Climbing a steep mound of grass and grain I puffed loudly, stirring further my inner emotions of effort and achievement. Gaining momentum against the uphill climb. A regular point of trickiness that required attempts of peculiar dynamics to overcome. Sand filled my shoes; air filled my lungs. I feel tired. I feel good. I feel great. The effort is the reward.

Breaking into heaven

May 2010

I began working on a pathway to life’s conclusion immediately. I selfishly over thought the process. This spiralled disturbingly from pricing heavy ropes to examining the height of trees in St Anne’s Park and nearby grassland. In a truly sinister shift of deliberation, the coward in me later sought an excuse to conceal my demise; believing that dangling from a tree close to home was not appropriate. I changed my focus to finding a more understated manner in escaping the reality I had come to loathe.

This confusing observance of wanting something more subtle than escaping through a noose set from the closest tree to home was fuelled by two very different reasons; firstly the disturbingly low belief that in the aftermath of goodbye, I didn’t deserve the attention or discussion from neighbours or the local community, my exit should be unresponsive and go unnoticed. I was worthless. I would not be missed.

The second reason of avoiding goodbye close to home was that my family deserved to be left in peace, not to be haunted or scared by the reminder of my exit every time one of them walked around the corner. Buried beneath the unrelenting tragedy of self hate and anger was the glint of hope that in considering the thoughts and feelings of those closest to me showed my inner decency; this trail of compassion wrapped itself around me. I constantly tried to cut loose. I was worthless. I would not be missed. Still it clung on.

Although I believed I would be in a state of stillness for the final weeks, I was annoyed at myself for still caring. I was still angry, still acknowledging that there was a possibility that I shouldn’t feel this way; that I should be happy and have the right to be content. Going forward I ensured that my mood deteriorated further with tormenting rituals that became routine in my daily life; firstly I felt the need to look in the mirror at any given opportunity to remind myself that I was of course worthless and that I would not be missed. This started off very much ad hoc, once maybe twice a day, soon growing into a much bigger and damaging set play with insults and disparagement aimed at myself all too regularly.

I craved further hurt. I began eyeing strangers aggressively; insulting them should they challenge my glare. My intentions of hope being that I would be punched, kicked and ultimately receive the hurt and pain I deserved. I was of course worthless. I would not be missed.

I went to meet friends one night. As I sat in the pub, I looked around resenting the smiles and laughter of so many people enjoying the company of others. I sat alone. I watched as my friends interacted with each other, speaking about things I knew nothing about and things I maybe knew about, but was afraid to express my opinion on. I sat alone. I waited and watched. 20 minutes passed and no one approached me. I was invisible. An extra. A nobody. I was contributing nothing to any of this and clearly my absence would go noticed. In these moments I finally felt the stillness and relaxation I had craved. Time to go. I was worthless. I most definitely would not be missed.

I got up and left without notice.


A short period of time has passed since launching the blog. I have been very overwhelmed with the positive response from so many people and the connections that have made. People as near as Dun Laoghaire, Dundalk and Donegal and as far Norway, America and Australia.

I’ve had very open and heartfelt conversations with people who have suffered or are currently suffering with similar mental health issues. Each person has shared an incredible story of sadness as well as strength and resilience.

Having shared the blog, I have found my own mood to be upbeat and positive. I’m aware the content has been quite dark and somewhat harrowing, but I’ve found it enlightening to be so honest and upfront about my experiences for the first time in my life.

I’d like to continue my story…

Friday, 19 September 2014

Walk away in silence

April 2010. I had been working in the bank for three years; a solid job with stability and progression. But behind the career and the payslip, the way of routine and monotony had begun to wrap itself tightly around me. I was suffocating beneath a wave of my own stillness and self-loathing. I sat in a cash office in the same seat every day, confined to the cushion of a chair 9 to 5. I smiled because it was highlighted to do so in contract. I served the same customers at the same time day after day. I talked about the weather. I talked about the weekend. I talked about the weather and I talked about the weather.

The original feelings of pride and autonomy in contributing to work life had long disappeared.  I had once enjoyed the job. I enjoyed the constant meanderings and busyness on the streets and on the morning train. I had met interesting people and made wonderful work friends. But one cannot deny ones feelings. Pressure and desire chipped away at me. I began doubting the process, doubting the integrity of the job at hand and doubting my own ability to continue contributing. The thoughts of pointlessness in my existence began to swirl around my brain and I allowed them to swirl endlessly. I was angry.

I had good friends. A loving family. No one would want to hear the complaints and concerns of someone like me. I had a good job. I worked hard. But I convinced myself I was underachieving and that I would always be underachieving. I had let my parents down in everything I had ever done and I had failed them and failed myself. I was angry.
The job became tedious. I became paranoid that I wasn’t liked by other people. I began disliking people for no good reason. I was angry. I was constantly subdued and increasingly rude to customers. 
The finest example coming one idle Friday when a gentleman came through the doors and politely asked:

“Excuse me; am I in the right place to lodge a cheque?”

My charming reply: “Eh ye, it’s a fucking bank!”

Not me. Not me at all. The guilt of my smartness ate me up that day and confirmation of the need to escape from the setting came soon afterwards when an elderly woman suffering with Alzheimer’s entered the building and a clerk saw an opportunity to coil her into opening a new account. Sheer exploitation and downright wrong. I hated it all. I was angry.

I became very relaxed towards reaching goals and getting things done. I didn’t care.  I stopped getting up early. I began arriving late. I stopped getting up full stop. I was always sick. Cold after cold; Chest infection after chest infection. I cried in the mornings at the thought of it all. I wanted out. I was angry.

There were other key factors outside of work that were hindering my mood and my belief is that in this instance, the job was the medium in which my anger and hate were channelled and proceeded to eat me up. I was suffering badly with my asthma; a condition I once had as a child, but had recently being diagnosed with it  again. I struggled to deal with emotionally and physically and I didn’t know how to control it. I was angry.

Almost every close friend I had was in a relationship; buying a house; planning a baby; planning a wedding. I was single. Despite being comfortable in my own skin and wholly independent, I was often lonely and I had need and want for companionship and love. I was still lacking confidence in sports. I was never as good as any of my friends at football. My inability to compete at the level that they did hurt me. I was angry.

These are simple things; life problems which the average person comes upon daily. Issues and niggles that were in so many ways extremely innocent and unimportant, but I allowed them to become deeply severe. Combining all this hurt and supposed neglect, I failed to see clarity and I lost faith in myself.

It was time to go.

I was no longer angry. 

Life is what life does...

The response following the launch of this blog has been incredible. I found myself overwhelmed with the positive feedback and the compassionate offerings, firstly from people whom I do not know personally who may have found themselves in a similar emotional situation and also from people close to me who may not have been aware of such goings on in my life.

My aim in servicing the blog will collate with memories of spontaneity and honest thinking. My choice is to publish mixed thoughts of relevance from younger years and now, as opposed to a chronological layout of every incident I may deem either vexing or inspirationally life affirming.
I previously highlighted two major contributors reasoning my self-consciousness, fear and doubt in personal development as a teenager and to move forward several years, I will now share two of my lowest moments.

Heavy blurts of darkness in a hollow pit of terminal concession. Thoughts of endgame. Want for escape. Plans for suicide.   

Monday, 15 September 2014

My confusion, my illusion

Fear can be described as an unpleasant feeling of anxiety or apprehension caused by the presence or anticipation of danger. The frozenness and reluctance to proceed when stifled with fear is recognisable and understandable to everybody when faced with pressure and uncertainty in potential outcomes in life; preparing for an interview for a new job; meeting new people in social occasions, a visit to the doctor. The strains of fear are many and constant and in facing our fears we as beings have different ways of dealing with any given situation.

In my younger years, I was engulfed by fear in different ways and for different reasons. I lacked the confidence to interact coherently with friends and family. I was uncomfortable in social settings and disliked big crowds of people. In no way was I shy, but like most teenage boys, I had little clarity or self-perception of my own personality and characteristics.
This social anxiety was brought to the fore through two means; firstly in school I was a victim of bullying. Standing a little plump and pudgy in my teenage years, my understanding as a boy was that ‘chubby’ kids were picked on and that was the norm, that being neglected and subpar to other kids was just a rule in growing up and in going to school. I accepted the taunts and the kicks and failed in any way possible to respond or defend myself.

I cried. I sulked. I considered the changes I should make to ensure these people would like me. Could I be like them and be cool? How could I change to be popular? Again, this was my understanding as a boy; that individualism was irrelevant and fitting in and altering your image and behaviour to gain respect and stance was the only way to feel an ounce of self-importance and belief.

There was no inner fear in dealing with these perpetrators as in my naivety I saw them as friends. They were the cool kids that everyone loved. I was an extra, part of the group only as geography and circumstance would have it. We all lived close and we were all put in the same school. My real fear was explaining to my teachers and my family my constant frustration and upset in not being able to fit in and be an idol within the group. I often fantasised of being the leader, the one wearing the new expensive clothes and runners, the one the girls all talked to and the one everyone was afraid of.

My feelings of neglect and anger were notions I pointed towards myself more than anyone else. I was angry and afraid of my own personality and as a result of being put down; I was embarrassed at my own talents and abilities. I was always a talented artist, I loved drawing. But in the eyes of the perpetrators this wasn’t seen as acceptable and wasn’t judged as being a talent for popular kids to have. Having won a local art competition in school, my prized entry was ripped up in front me by ‘the leader’ – the guy I wanted to be – and thrown out the window much to the classes amusement and cheer.
Despite my upset, again I convinced myself that I was excess to requirement in a class full of popular people. My talents didn’t matter. My being didn’t matter and this was all very normal for a chubby, quiet 12 year old.

Was it all doom and gloom? Of course not. I played football and loved it. I was a talented goalkeeper, but ‘the leader’ constantly reminded me that I was only the goalkeeper because I was not able to play in an important position outfield and he amongst others ensured that I knew very well that there were several other players there who were all better in goal than I was. I stopped playing as a goalkeeper and switched to outfield because it was what the popular kids were doing.

The second leveller that caused an explosion of fear and social anxiety came on 5th April 1998. Aged 13, I went into the city centre to buy a new football jersey. Ireland had missed out on the World Cup, but had issued a new range of playing gear and training gear and I had saved up money for months in order to treat myself. Having made the purchase, I decided to walk home from town. My mind wandered and the regular thoughts of a boy my age filled my head as I made my way home. My solace was disturbed when closing in on home. Not far from where I live, a man pulled me aggressively from behind. He grabbed me by the shoulder and began shouting at me: ‘GIVE ME YOUR JERSEY!’ ‘GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING JERSEY!’ I was completely shocked. Stunned into statuesque fear. Terrified. How did he know what was in the bag? He must have followed me. The situation worsened. Holding his forearm heavily across my throat in order to restrain me, he reached for his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a syringe. I could see clearly its contents. Brownish liquid. ‘I’LL FUCKING STICK THIS IN YOUR NECK YOU PRICK! GIVE ME THE BAG!’

I screamed. I seriously screamed. It was 2.20pm on a Tuesday afternoon. Broad daylight. People around. Cars on the main road. But I was alone. I somehow broke free and ran the entire way home. I climbed into bed and cried. I stayed in bed for days. The effects were harrowing. Already a nervous boy lacking severely in confidence and in belief, I lost faith in living. I lost faith in people and developed an unrelenting fear of society and its goings on. I refused to go anywhere alone. I rarely left the house. I was afraid of strangers and I was afraid of living. DOC

All in the mind...

The relevance of every thought that burrows the brain minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day makes assessment difficult to judge, Where sits the significance of each spurt? Sandwiched mind fill fantasies of ambition, incident, winnings, loss and want.  Spread and smothered in notions of achievement, frailty and fear. Give a thousand thoughts a minute, a million thoughts a day, a mind forever and always; forever dreaming, always wanting.