The realization that I have never really tried. Sure, I have tried to make situations work out  as best I could, but ultimately that was so mired by problems and pains that the effort was put into not falling apart, rather than the objective at hand.

Have I ever really taken care of myself, in a full way? How hard have I fought the darkness, used all the tools at my disposal, instead of succumbing immediately? The familiarity of misery. We long for what is familiar at the cost of what is possible. For life to truly move along, to truly evolve, I must be rid of old belief systems, ways of live, and ultimately people and environments.

What am I willing to sacrifice? To discard? Even if it has been the one pillar of my life, perhaps it is holding something which is not true shelter. The ability to envision a better life precedes having one. This involves identifying what must go.

Posted in Non-Fiction


Years ago I titled this blog after the realization that every day was a chance at redemption, that every day I has the opportunity to rise out of yesterdays ash and reach something higher. Not to suggest that each day burns, but I carry acres of ash from old fires and have no choice but to rise. Otherwise life is spent suffocating, choking on dead dust.

Dust, blockages, breathing. Blockages. Clutter. I am surrounded by beautiful clutter. What it takes to change any habit is absurd. A tidy desk. I am amazed by those who traverse truly treacherous terrain, the stone dagger landscapes like Madagascar, the inner equivalent, and manifest ease into their life through noble efforts of self-discovery.

Can I not value myself in this way? Am I not exactly the kind of person I admire? And if I am not, is it not in my complete power to change this? It is.


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The world is equally beautiful every day, the same inexplicable deeds divulging, perhaps with equal ratios of good and horror. How can we really know they aren’t always balanced? Perhaps twohundredandtwentyfivethousandbillion acts of kindness and love can be tallied against seventeenhundredandtwentyfivethousandbillion acts of sorrow and evil. When you’re on the painful side I suppose you won’t care that love is winning. Maybe it would give you hope. An interesting idea nonetheless.

After every bout of horror, I have always returned stronger than ever to an immense sense of wonder for life. Faith in hanging on, in fighting, has never failed me. And many others. Take comfort in this. There is endurance. There is victory.

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I have been given a masterclass by the universe in noticing fear. I am motivated by it in deeply entrenched ways, and it’s hegemony is impressive. It is inherited from my family, written on all the pages of my consciousness, and I stand vigilant with a small eraser, rubbing out this graffiti at every opportunity. Sometimes it comes off clean, other times the graphite smears and I have a larger mess than when I started. Delicate touches with the rubber saviour are then required.

The internal does take on the external. I realized that I always expect my peace to be disturbed, as I grew up with unpredictable bouts of anger and shouting. My psyche has taken this on, and does not allow a healthy or peaceful perspective to remain undisturbed for too long. This differs from the expectation of feeling happy all the time-people conflate unrealistic exuberance for stability too often. Earlier today, I realized my peace is safe. No one is going to barge in and scream at me, figuratively or otherwise, and I can stop doing that to myself.

Understanding that the past is past. Understanding, on a visceral level, that you are safe.

The task at hand. What I hold everyday.

Posted in Non-Fiction

Perfect Sight

There is a white hot rage in me, mixed in with a black tar rotting decay. A festering volcano, the afterbirth of trauma. Lack of control of internal emotional processes. This is a legacy of being overpowered, you really lose agency over yourself. At it’s worst, it is an ultimate loss of control, so-called madness, insanity. In it’s more mature manifestations, at least one can manage their outward behaviour, but the inner realms are lawless lands, where the past roams free and bleeds into the now, staining everything.

Times heals nothing. Going through the fire is what cauterizes, disinfects, and heals. And you cannot run through because then you are simply incinerated. You actually have to walk through. Slowly. It is a strange truth. I never thought I would have the strength to do this. To cut out the people who needed to be cut out, to speak the deeds that were done, to face the past and say no more.

Even as a child I knew my parents had to go, at some point. I always knew they were not for me. The clarity of this was so intense for so long, I’m not sure why it dissolved. Why did I feel like I needed them? The raw rage of youth was so wise, so true. When did I stop listening? I am not sure. I lacked vision when I was younger, the vision of truly escaping them. It was unimaginable. It was a freedom beyond mental conjuring. Rage is so valuable if we take what is best in it – the seed of truth. There is a reason we feel it. To understand this reason and  plant this reason into our consciousness so we may reap the appropriate actions, this is how we can use rage.

You already know everything you need to know. Any tool from the outside is to help you get inside. Clarity is there. You just need to clean your vision. Or rather, clarity comes through cleaning vision, and you already have perfect sight.

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The past repeats itself until it is faced. I am learning this, as many do, the hard way. It’s the repetition that pains the most. A new heartbreak at least breaks a new part, something previously untouched by life. The same old wound repeatedly pierced is somehow more degrading. Part of the insult of trauma is the over and over, the refusal of the past to pass. You are crystallized in time, for though the body ages and wrinkles form on the brow, deep inside, it is the same horror, the same grief as the days, years, even decades before.

Face the past. The past feels faceless and nameless, more like the water that drowns you as you try to swim. But is it water that drowns, or the inability to swim? Swimming takes practice. Water gives life, if approached appropriately. Everything can be learned. The past can provide strength. If we learn how to handle the past, we can find understanding, peace even. Everything is possible.


Posted in Non-Fiction


Both my hamster and I are sneezing. I am unsure of what afflicts her delicate little nostrils. She afflicts mine. Could we be allergic to each other? She certainly mirrors my emotional states, and I feel a degree of responsibility for her when she is agitated or neurotic. It is interesting to watch her. She makes things harder for herself. She pushes away the little box I place under the tube, as a step, and then struggles to climb into the tube. She pushed it away. I placed it there for her. What is she thinking? And yet, I do the same, constantly. People, opportunities, money, push it away and struggle to climb out of the darkness alone.

Some heartbreak is too perfect. You cannot help but admire the handiwork, the perfect befuckery of your deeds. In sparring some weeks ago, I faced a very advanced boxer, and couldn’t help but admire her power and skill as she beat the shit out of me. The pains of life are like this too, so brilliantly orchestrated that they invoke as much awe as they do misery. We are strange creatures, ruining our own lives in profound ways. But that just means we’re in control. More control than we want to face. The power of an individual to shape their own life is immense. And to forget this, too dangerous.

Posted in Non-Fiction