Dear Diary: Proof of Something

If I am proof of anything it’s hard work doesn’t pay off, practice doesn’t make perfect and what goes around doesn’t come around.

In reality, you have to be working hard on the right things in the right way, it has to be perfect practice, life isn’t even remotely fair and the universe simply does not care at all.

Ultimately the world will neither miss me nor mourn my loss, I matter only so far as I decide that I do, beyond that, I don’t matter at all. I lack both relevance and significance. My existence continues in large part through luck and cowardice; mostly cowardice.

I live a life of pretend and make believe. I pretend what I do has significance, it matters, it counts, that somehow my life is worthy of something, that I as a person have value and worth. In my make believe world I am wise and knowledgeable and people look up to me and value what I say, they support me and believe I will succeed, that my endeavours valuable for my part I pretend along that my life has value with them.

I know, I am, sadly, and I wish I was not, completely aware, of the sham and masquerade.

I am playing along like it matters because it’s all I know to do, but I do know exactly what is true.

 

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Dear Diary: Manchester is not by the Sea

The seaside, so often the facade of towns long closed down in heart and soul existing was not for me.

This was reflection and calm, the quiet, where people said a cheerful hello while you look out, a gas rig or two between your bench and Norway. A different place, a different sense of time.

A little calm so close to places so familiar and a life so very different to the one I have now.

My obligation fulfilled, respects duly paid, tears respectfully held back, and happy memories built upon the ashes of the past.

My dearest friends a comforting bridge, welcoming arms and helping hands, solace in the storm.

A place does not know, it does not remember, it meant no harm, it held no anger, it will not be bitter, nor will it be sad, it will shed no tears, knowing not the passing of our years. Those we bring, they are ours to leave or take away, memories are our own each day, and the stories ours to tell, like the place lest we too face away.

Dear Diary – It’s​ All About Where You Look

If you look at my blog then I really haven’t been up to much at all. And, in a way I haven’t.

The truth is I have made a conscious effort to stay away from computers and technology much more. Although I confess to being an Instagram and Spotify person, those two I really like and are great unwinding tools for me, the rest I have tried to just leave alone. I have been successful, pretty much too.

I went away to Wales, and took some pictures which I will edit and share because it a beautiful place, but it reminded me that there is the world outside, and getting sick and all that involved, did eventually, lead to me making adjustments to how I am living life and what is taking priority. As I mentioned, this summer is an opportunity in my competitive life, which this blog, and, in fact, no blog, is about, that may never come round again, and I am lucky to have the opportunity to devote a lot of time, effort and energy to that. Right, now, somehow, it is entirely possible, and this shocks me to contemplate, I am actually one of the better competitors, in my category, in the country.

It really depends where you look, creatively, my office is still very much a declutter and dejunk project. I really have too much in too small a space, and I could not effectively do what I wanted to do in the space I had, and it was really not working. So I am committed to finally, sorting that aspect of my creative life out, and using what is a big space effectively towards a goal, and yes I do have a goal. But that is taking time because it is not a priority.

Also, I am learning skills and losing some of the fears that my “illness”/neurological issues have created and am getting the confidence to slowly embark on ventures and ideas again, but I know this is going to be a very very slow process, both because its not something I can put in number one spot immediately, and because I just do not have the energy levels I had before to devote to anything. And, also wisdom as taught me that cakes bake better on the right heat for the right time, and rushing never makes for a good final product.

So, unlike other Dear Diary’s this more of an update, check in, where i am, which is here, doing my thing, trying to do life and tackle the challenges this blog has talked about, and which are still very real and present, while focussing on the opportunity I have in my competitive life, and yearning a little for my creative Mouse to get out and scurry soon

Dear Diary: 19th July 17, At The Head of the Valley

Back from a weekend in Wales.

For many, this is a simple thing, for my Mouse this was a weekend of overcoming fears. Fear of the unknown, a trip to a new and unfamiliar place via new roads, to the countryside. No urban landscape, no hospital, no backup plan, no safety net, the very darkest of unknowns.

However, it was great. I walked up hills, found peace and solitude, walked in the woods and listened to the river whisper.

I cooked in a little cabin kitchen and connected back to myself.

The urban expanse brings neither comfort nor security, it feeds my fears and imprisons my minds, plays tricks on me and convinces me that outside is the enemy. It is people I fear, people are the cruel, random, violent, betrayers of trust.

Nature has no favourites, it is not cruel, nor kind, it is, it does not change, it seasons have always been and will always be, it is not capricious of malevolent, it does not plot or betray, it has no skeletons, no secret past, nature has not lied, nature does not rewrite the past.

Mr Mouse keeps on Moving, keeps in doing, good one Mr Mouse!

Dear Diary: The Night Is Dark And Full of Terrors

My attacks happen in my sleep.

I wake up, sometimes I am ok.

Sometimes I am not.

Sometimes I am paralysed

Sometimes a little.

Sometimes a lot.

Sometimes I can speak.

Sometimes I slur.

Sometimes I make no sense.

One time it didn’t hurt.

But I woke up.

And sound strummed agony for chords

I tried to smile but that didn’t work