Homecoming

The town creeps up on me like a slow storm, a monochromatic void where people exist with the burdens gifted them by chance. Where dreams come to die...

...Welcome home!

I see Tracey, who despite being married to Darren still lives with her ex because of the kids; who call Darren Granddad by the way. Tracey shovels chips at the local takeaway, but her real passion lies in writing erotic novels about desperately lonely woman.

Fall down a well.

Next door a collective of chavs, here known as a 'benefit', oozes out from an anonymous grey building, all fresh off the production line of cliche. You can actually see devolution as each copy of a
copy of a copy gets further stripped of individuality.

I'm no different of course, although realising I'm no different instantly makes me so. It's ok to be the first person to do something for a second time, but there's such disappointment in constant duplication.

Moving away from this place was hard, really hard. My routine was a tether preventing me from falling, so why take it away? Because each time I return to this place I feel myself drained of all creative thought, as if I've been prescribed the wrong medication. I see how easily this tether could become a noose.Because I needed to know I was good enough without it, that taking risks didn't necessarily mean plummeting to my death. I'm not stupid, I've substituted for a safety net formed by those I care for, those willing to catch me should I falter.

My family home is different: it's like a plant you see growing up through the pavement, a patch of life in a concrete desert. But I could never come back to this place, it feels too much like a step backwards.

As I arrive back at the place I now call home I finally catch my breath as I'm greeted by one of those people I mentioned earlier, his smile like the sun appearing from behind a cloud...

Predictably Irrational

Is it that I don't want people saying nice things about me, or that I don't feel worthy of receiving praise? Why do I refuse help and then feel as if nobody is willing to offer it?

I am a weed in a flower bed, a stone in deep water...

After a number of weeks feeling like I'm looking in on my own life I've decided to reclaim my body and make it walk forwards. These irrational thoughts have become so commonplace that they now carry a degree of predictability, and with predictability comes a certain amount of control.

Acknowledging ones own madness, admitting to yourself that nobody else is to blame can be the first step to quenching a persons emotional thirst, allowing them to once again drink from the pool of options available.

Today has been such a day for me...

Out jumping on my bike, drinking wine in good company and discussing ideas with fellow creative types managed to crack a shell of doubt that has recently cocooned me. Another blast around the garden this afternoon whilst listening to rock music made me feel like a god. And as I sat there taking in the world, watching the wind dance amongst the trees, some of it caught my sagged sail and I drifted out across a sea of quiet contemplation feeling completely free.

Feeling driven to do more has once again made me set myself goals, and having something to aim for is half the battle won: When my funds are a little more balanced I'm going to stock up on art supplies and get back to sculpting, I'll also be taking up a home studies course in psychology; something I started years ago but never finished!

Faceroll:

A technique I often employ, helping to achieve success in venting my frustrations through the power of words. All one has to do is slide their face from side-to-side across the keyboard until something of worth appears in the little box.

I'm not a writer, far from it, but I do enjoy language. The origin of a word intrigues me, its meaning and many uses. The way a word might not carry the same understanding from one person to the next can be a source of conflict or one of great jocularity: standard varieties in speech, especially when associated with a particular ethnic or regional group or when used out of context can completely change the way in which it's interpreted. Humour is the best example I've found of this, especially when distinguishing sarcasm from literal language.

Writing also provides me with a safe environment in which to explore fears, thoughts, feelings and ideas that make no sense when spoken out loud. Like ripples in water settling to reveal a clear reflection, writing somehow manages to piece together things that pour from the big stupid thing on top of my shoulders into something I can understand.

I visit this blog in times such as this, when I need to evacuate bad thoughts from the mother ship out into the world where they have space to grow, or time to die...

Singing the Winter Blues

For some reason the DPD driver chooses not to overtake me on a blind corner this morning. I wave, the rain hiding my tears from his judgement. Maybe he knows?

I'm often possessed with an overbearing feeling for beauty; my childlike fascination opens my eyes to the smaller things, but as I lay here starring out into a dark and gloomy October my mind seems to be recruiting demons for the others to play with.

My alarm goes off. Eurgh...

We all go through times of self-evaluation, low mood and a lack of passion for life which make us question whatever it is our hearts truly desire - it’s constant stopping and starting terrifies me. But lately I've found myself turning up late to the battle, arriving just in time to look out over the tableau of forgotten dreams. Was the risk for disappointment too great? Did I fear losing out, or walking away empty handed?

It’s been weeks since I felt truly myself. The list of excuses includes work, drink, pain and the codeine designed to block it all out. I'm still finding time to be creative but it comes and goes like the rhythm of the tides. Recently a door has been opened, behind which goblins lurk and dragons rule and as friends together we fight against these fantastical creatures in the realm of shared imagination. But like waking from an enjoyable dream we eventually get dragged back to reality, kicking and screaming…

The trees planted last year are yet to bear fruit, and with all the intention in the world it’s only down to my lack of discipline that this years harvest has been weak. I guess the time has come to once again consider taking up a new hobby, to learn a new skill. But it’s also the time of year where the skies are grey and the house is warm. The outside is cold and wet; its dark waters fill my lungs as I sink to the bottom of its lonely abyss.

Is this a seasonal disorder?

Whatever it is I don’t like it. I feel secondary, alone, vulnerable and it can’t be long before I'm permanently wounded or destroyed completely. 

A holiday approaches; maybe this time will serve me well in being more decisive. I'd also like to plan ahead with 'that guy', I think we could both use a target at which to aim our ambition.