The present moment, a mess of interpretation a puzzle strewn across my minds eye. Leaves scattered across an old picnic blanket left behind after the long summer day. The night winds blow cold now through the eaves and echoes of laughter and screams of delight idle away like wet foot prints across a…… Continue reading Movement (poem)
My brain in alive. It ticks and clicks clamours and shifts- trillions of patterns, pathways, responses, counter responses, analysis, dismissal, assimilation- I stare at a wall, and feel the hard weight of infinity looming. Where am I? Is my brain me? Me often feels secondary, Me seems like a construct, a dream, a chased reality.…… Continue reading My brain is alive (poem)
It’s something of a contradiction, I feel, to state that writing be just a self indulgence. A friend of mine, and a friend whose opinion means a lot to me because she has a quite brilliant mind, suggested this; she stated that writing is a self-indulgence which allows the writer to spend inordinate amounts of…… Continue reading How much is writing a self indulgence?
As above, so below. The skies are blue, black, pink and grey- the mind is multifariously multicoloured. The unconscious- it’s like an ever changing, ever shifting maze; an aspect of the mind, a vast basement to the head. Your chain of thought threads you through it like a piece of cotton through the eye of…… Continue reading The vast maze of the unconscious mind..