Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—And that was why it whispered and did not speak.It was no dream... Continue Reading →

Braver Again…

I was looking through the news this morning and found yet another story about a famous person who has suffered from mental issues. The guy was a sportsman, a top-class goalkeeper, who nose-dived into that pit of despair and anxiety that seems to be affecting more and more of the 'normal' population. Because of his... Continue Reading →

The Tatooist of Auschwitz

A Novel I have only just finished reading this and have gained something from its tale. There was a moment towards the end of the story that I started to feel the tears begin to well-up beneath my glasses. The spectacles are not rose-tinted, but are tainted by the passing years. This meant that I... Continue Reading →

Shooting the Breeze

I'm writing this on the back of a conversation with Angie, a fellow blogger and person who I respect enormously. Angie was questioning my post from yesterday that dealt with aspirations. I can see how anyone may have misunderstood what I was actually meaning. I was questioning the way in which schools begin to sell... Continue Reading →

Losing Slates…

Last Night's Sleep Around the 'witching hour' it woke me up. Some torrent of air was cascading across the world and suddenly I was no longer safe asleep. It came with a booming. A long exhale of frustration that was meant to punish. Too long had they been in their beds, wrapped up against the... Continue Reading →

Waking Up To Satanic Verses.

It's an odd thing to pop into ones head as the last of sleep drains away, but this morning I woke with a strange idea, religion. As with all strange ideas born from slumber, this one threatened to wash away before my true wakefulness had returned and so I tried to capture some of it... Continue Reading →

Why I Write. George Orwell

It communicates. From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and... Continue Reading →

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