Memories

A dolphin swimming on its back - complimenting the sky with its white smooth hidden side. Ripples are barely visible in the sea, like age showing on a 30-something's face. A dog barks again as the world is ignored. I, we, are ignored again. Do you enjoy being in charge? Bet you can throw that around. Funny. The ball hasn't left your hand for the son to catch yet. No the hole in your pocket accidentally drops change for the poor. Change? A certain amount of money is needed to change a person? You only give when you have enough to do so? You selfish bastard.

We spend most of our lives as the fly in the web, the apple on the pear tree, the empty bottle floating on the ocean. You can learn from this. The bottle dares to ask for a sip of the ocean after months of holding the ocean's heart. Drink from the glass and see how it tastes. Did it burn as it went down? Your face, your eyes, your hair was in that glass. These are the pieces you allowed society to take from you - brushing every tooth until their face could be seen. I jotted your name down on paper once - I apologised to the tree. Hold the lantern to your eyes and touch - let the light touch, lick, caress your face briefly. You have missed this - you held it under the water as society whipped the dignity from existence. My ear holds more truths than your tongue. Remember the acid? Throw your bucket down the well - what does it bring back up? The ashes of the face you burned years ago. Did you enjoy it? Ash is not a jigsaw - that time is gone - you had your chance. You belong to it now as its red needle fingers coil around your waist - carving the world's anthem on each rib.

A wind picks up the dust on the floor and spirals the old memories over a grand father clock as time tips its hat to it. That respect came and went - where was the glue to make it stay?

Can we continue when the clouds cloth the sun? When the ivy coils around the flower?

There's a gap in thought. Breathe. Wait. Just wait.

We can take the time to hold breath. To hold a child. To hold yourself.

I know you. I knew you once and I know you now. A smile can break the tension. I want to remember with you the day the world stopped to breathe. The day all hands were held and I stood next to you. The day I breathed air into your lungs and watched as you exhaled the words needed to dry my eyes. I want to remember the day the world turned around - it reformed. Will you stand beside me? Touch. Laugh. Cry!

But remember this - the day I stand there, I will look for your hand within society.

Ball

It's harder to complete when the mind isn't there. To focus, feel, believe. To have so much faith in one - the one. Belief is the waterwheel which never stops burning. The water is the reoccurring thoughts which carve the river - which turn the wheel. I am the ice cream that melts on the ice cube. You are the song amongst the heavy moans - the drop of sun in the monsoon. You're in the light, my light, and completely ignorant of it. It's not your fault - fault is the shoddy brick which lands the house on the ground. It is the log in the river, the ant in the quicksand. I am the brick, the log, the ant - the fault is mine. You are the house, the river, the sand.

I hold in my hands a soft ball - the earth to a leader. Head shape does not unfold the mysteries of the brain - can I bite the apple of knowledge? What if I bounce the ball the way you have bounced me? You are the ground and I am the ball - only on occasions do I touch your life. But the ball will not stay on the ground - it will roll into the gutter.

A sword that cuts the tree apologises more to the flesh of a man. Man. Idealism in finding one's own selfish needs. Did the wooden scream not mean stop? Lets set fire to our hands and then build an empire - only the people, the just, will lick the ashes from the ground - will exchange stones from their tongues to feel for once - to know that they are real - they are allowed that and should breathe life into that - take the air from your chants and breathe life - their hands hold scars that burnt the cross? No religion - the splinter in the ever-watchful eye - unforgiving yet you taste it more. The sandwich you made does not feed the hunger - you the bread, I the butter and religion the meat - the meat ripped from a man's back. See the cycle? You, as man, can chant for the round as it hits the net. Man is the ball - the will to control the score is the gift to present on the day of birth. Sport has lost its origin now, its true meaning. Man is the ball? I'll gladly kick the ball to score a goal.

Sand Castles

Has it stopped yet? That itch? That burn? A lonely oak in a sea of splinters. Will you burn or blossom as the sun kissed delicate root which flirts with the soil of acceptance?

Now it's dark, but are you scared? Well of course, but do you pursue? Just bloody pursue! The minerals of the soil temp you otherwise - it's easier to just accept. But will you be the flower with the root more beautiful than light through a raindrop resting on a petal? Or the flower which engulfs the viewer - who's roots came and died before a decision was made?

View the art, but don't you dare describe it with your tongue. Tongue leads to language, language leads to conflict, war and the destruction of art - of beauty. Your eyes alone describe the art. Every brush stroke, every bump on the canvas, excess paint, the lines, the colour, the texture, the invoked emotion - a tongue cannot capture this, any of this. Can your tongue describe red? Let your eyes scan and enjoy - that is yours, it is you, you own that. A tongue shares it and then it is gone - you don't want to loose another. Read the book, don't watch the DVD - your eyes become lazy. Funny, you look at art, I, we look at art. I see beauty, careful planning, decisions made by the individual. What is your art? A person so bad with every other talent that they attempt to excel with their personality - this is piss boiling in a pot and the smell has even disgusted the crude.

Listen to me - you have a gift. You have it. In you right now. Always. Just watch. Breathe. Listen. Touch. You gazed at the grass briefly only a moment ago. I want you to look again. Watch. Breathe. There's a whole world there which you dismissed. The stroke of the wind is much more talented than an ear full of tongue. The sand from the hour glass is now between your fingers. With each grain that unknowingly falls you drown another talent in a pool of acid dripped into existence by a hard working tongue. If you see the sand fall, then great! But your next step is to build a sand castle.

You

I guess I'll start here. Right here, now, in this space of time. It's 2:43am and I have an 8 hour shift starting at 12:00. Work - a virus, a parasite - a closed door blocking opportunity from ever being touched. We are burning butterflies caught in a thick spread of tar. We were beautiful, once. You were beautiful - your eyes should not have to view the dark sides of the world, but we breathe it.

What happened? Number 1 is it now - second chances come in the glimmers of hope which bless us with good fortune. I am lucky, I have one I can think of right now. Oh and we laugh and point the bastard finger of shame - all the while forgetting that guilt should be knocking right about now? If you hear it, then I Love you and hope that time is irrelevant when I breathe and live with you. I take you always as you gave me your time when we first met. I long to take it further, to lay in content - no, with a continuous flowing and replaying "fresh Love" which we dip our feet in as the world is on our backs. Feeling every drop of rain with you, every blade of grass and touching the soft of a barbed wire life with you. I can sleep with ease again.

But where are you? My mind is here, my mind. Where are your arms when I need the cracks, the boils, the disease and selfish society to disappear at the ocean bed? Why were we left when we need you the most?

Introduction

Hey Guys,

I am writing these posts as a means of self help. A good friend of mine suggested that I keep a log of the thoughts in my head and to express them through a more creative medium.

Since the age of 16, I have suffered from depression mixed with tendencies of Bi-Polar disorder. At times it has been manageable, other times it has been dark and sometimes it has been very dark. I have told people about it in the past; people who I thought were my friends. Their lack of knowledge towards it has left me branded 'strange', 'weird' and 'not of this earth' - the current state which the earth is in, would you not prefer to hail from a superior planet? Their opinions have not upset me, they are entitled to them - no matter how ill informed they are.

My personal belief has been that anything which starts in the mind can only be overcome and cured in the mind. Occasionally I am awake into the early hours of the morning with my mind racing from one thought to another and linking thoughts, emotions, names, images, phrases, art and colour together. Like a computer without an off switch. It has been a personal battle for the last 7 years now. I don't believe it will ever be something which I will overcome fully - it will only become something more manageable over time.

The logs I keep are not diary entries. They are not chapters from a novel, versus of a poem or bridges in a song. They are me. They are the best way I can describe the thoughts in my head. They are morally strong with my beliefs, my experiences and my personal views - they are not gospel. An open mind is the only mind which can appreciate the writings and dissect them to their own understanding. Some people my never understand them - I do not write them for critical acclaim. They are me. I cannot give anymore than myself.

If you would like to contact me regarding anything you read then please do not hesitate to do so. I welcome any questions or views and will reply to you as honestly and constructively as I possibly can.

Take care always

Broken Soul