Memories can be biased. How you see yourself now is likely a reflection of how you pictured yourself when you were in your early twenties. Think about this. If you are a little older as I might be, you will find yourself surprised by things such as when you trip and fall, when you can't quite climb that tree in the yard anymore, and even when the mirror betrays you. Memories become fragmented, disjointed, as does your mind.!
I am roughly middle-aged, married to a beautiful lady and have two adult children that are in the middle of their own lives. Oh, and I forgot to mention my other. Keith is his own thing. He spends time focusing on the oddities and the metaphysical things in life. He mostly is there for me to bounce ideas off. Generally, he will come up with his own way of looking at my situation, and force his opinions on myself. I find him somebody that I can talk too if my world is getting away from me.
I mostly keep company with two lovely Springer Spaniels that I adore. They are polar opposites of each other, however, they are compassionate, loving, and when no one else is there, they are a great comfort to me.
I was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder in the fall of 2015. What kind of Bipolar I am, one or two remains a mystery to me as it varies depending on what doctor am speaking to. I was upset with the diagnosis at first. It's not easy to live with a label such as this. I don't do people outside of my comfort zone so well. It's truly a daily struggle.
I have no specific training as a writer. Words and tales of wonderous characters come naturally to me. A broken rock by the side of the road became one of my better short stories. A dream about a burning field and a village full of women with a tyrannical leader became another.
I am a guy who takes pictures of tiny worlds, where numbers such as 1450 mean something only to me. I'm here to share my favourite songs, my stories, and some images captured in the moment and some by my hand. Welcome to my world. I'm happy to share it with you.
Here the writer, the unpublished, sit's amidst the tumbling pencils and rafts of unfinished art and broken stories.
A fledgling author of poetry and prose.
What are you going to tell his wife...
The Orange Men. They have arrived. Sitting on the tailgates of time, resting their feet as the diesel carries them from place to place. Laying prone at the side of the road. With their backs against the trees. Always watching with their oversized eyes. Grasping with their oversized calloused hands. Watching, always watching.
I can't tell you what happened. One second he was droning on about nothing, and then he was on the floor. It was everything I could do not to kick him in the head.
Mathematical imagery casting confusion on the ignorant masses like a run-on sentence not knowing when to stop it's not good enough that it has its place in our society it's not even sure of its own existence yet it's left such an indelible mark on our thoughts ripped our beliefs from our children not able to shut the fuck up as it spews forth garbage upon this very world in which we reside, love, play, there is an equation for it all.
And as I die, I'll live to see another morning.
Yes... said the marshmallow floating in my tea. If you were you and you were are I, then I'd be only me.
There's been a change
A marked uselessness
Tell her I'll wait