High Beams Visible

It’s one of those days when the words are proving hard to come by. I’ve no shortage of ideas when it comes to writing, just a question of where those ideas belong. I’m not sure about putting everything here on the blogspot. One look around this ill manor and I feel you know me well enough. I’m merely another bohemian with problems. Who isn’t? I’m unashamed to call myself a free thinking creative. Indeed, this is why I have issues looming in from exterior parties. Don’t worry, I’m capable of looking after myself. Just. As long as I stay In Christ. I’m becoming steeped in wisdom with every passing season, it seems, with my hairline and my belly and my beard. I’m trying to smarten up my lifestyle a bit. One eye on the diet, one eye on the future. Futures are not guaranteed. Futures are amazing, priceless, and, for us struggling/recovering addicts, rare.

There’s only so much I can write about this state of being. I’m thinking of a private volume of fiction at home, unpublished online. This is for me only, as it’s important that one is one’s own biggest fan. I get a lot of mental strength from my own literary efforts. Some folk might call this power. It breeds more toil. I’ll be calling this oncoming body of work The Museless, if it ever appears, as I believed I lost my muse late last summer. Fortunately, gladly, luckily, it has returned. Not so long ago, even the thought of this I’m doing at the moment, being sat here typing about not much at all, seemed farfetched. Writing about ‘anything’ is an accomplishment, either when facing the block or losing the muse. Seriously. That’s why I’m currently quite proud of myself.

What’s the alternative, being sat back in the council box climbing the walls? Without booze or smokes, that possibility sounds like a chilling prospect. Nah. None of it. Get yourself before the keyboard and share your feelings with the world, methinks. Others disagree. One friend told me I was ‘off my chops’ to share anything personal with a stranger on the web. Strangely enough, he was a stranger on the web himself.

In a way, this blog has been based on falsehood, as I’ve written about relationships which were fake in the past. Now I’m all strung out alone with nothing but a handful of hugs and kisses in my heart. The hard macho image is over. I mistakenly presupposed that I was walking with a convoy of Angels. These so-called loving beings turned out to be Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies. Such a con is easy to fall for if you’ve been targeted since birth. I’m a nice regular stand-up guy who sees the best in everyone. But now the gloves are off. Each night I now sweep the flat of negative energies by going around and whacking empty air with a broomstick. This lets the invisible black-ops know that I’m not falling for their love bombs anymore. Sometimes I spray fire their way, from a homemade blowtorch. To the layman/observer, this behaviour looks totally nuts. And you wonder why I’m in and out of hospital every five minutes. But I swear, Your Honour, I can FEEL someone with me. Who else floods the sink and robs my odd socks!?

I know another victim/target/sufferer (I identify as victor) who said that everyone thought she was making up the story about her harassers, until one evening a brick came through the window and clocked her on the forehead. Then they still didn’t believe her. They thought the brick was in her imagination. So too the smashed window pane and resulting concussion in hospital. An imagination like that, and yet still no insight. Only stranger things happen at sea. And also, of course, on the hit series, Stranger Things. I only saw the first season of that Netflix caper. Something about sensory deprivation and aliens behind wallpaper. Bit strange to say the least. Winona Ryder kept me captivated. What a babe. Just my type. Wondering…has she ever let a sex tape leak? Quite a fair few of these raunchy celebrities have, haven’t they? Would I break my abstinence from self-induced pleasure to view it? Oh go on, I think we’ll make an exception. Bollox. I wouldn’t break my no-fap spree for an orgy with Little Mix.

I’ve just met a guy in group who is 134 days clean. He was supported by his mum, who was ever-so proud of him. There were smiles all-round from people doing well, including myself. The world is so much more bearable with everyone wearing beaming grins. When you live above a dungeon of blood drinkers for a living, you appreciate little spectacles like this. Such as a room of people laughing. As usually it’s just me, climbing those chilling council four walls, smoking and supping, viens and arteries snagged with the remnants of cocaine, hanging over tipping point beyond the comedown, wishing ever so politely that I were brown bread. I warned the 134 day man about this, should he relapse. DON’T DO IT!

There was even some happy-clappy brunette fresh meat there who identified with herself as, aside from a reasonable narcotics apologist, a ‘Dark Empath’. No, she didn’t have vampiric makeup on, before you ask. She had Uggs, scars and a Farmer Giles accent. If not for the off-putting dialect, I might have had to smuggle her away behind the bins and insert my breadstick into her cookie jar. If you know what I mean. I think you know exactly what I mean. Just my kind of lass. But better with the makeup on.

I had quite a puff of an anxiety attack yesterday, I get them often because of constant scrutiny from my mentally handicapped harassers, and I would have done anything for a caring mother to call and speak to for comfort on the blower. I had a peculiar sensibility that there was God, no Heavenly Provider, no Safety in Faith, no Holy Spirit…and I felt quite desolate, to stipulate it in lesser terms. Thankfully I get over these distressing bouts of conscientiousness in several hours or so and emerge the other side feeling relieved and stronger. I could be getting attacked by a mind weapon for all I know, from a drone or something, for Chris’sakes it wouldn’t be the first time. Who knows where all our doomsday emotions come from? Not from the Lord, that’s for damn sure.

I’ll be fine, so long as that pesky FEAR keeps away. Last time I felt real fear I was running round the woods semi-naked holding an armload of clothing pegs, for some mad reason. I was trying to blag my pursuers into thinking that I had an imaginary assortment of semtex on me. Made sense to me at the time.

I just feel so alone when these pockets of negativity strike, I don’t know who to turn to or think of. I tend to look inside myself. I see a lot of swirling conflictions within. My addictions are ugly and hard to swallow. I find it difficult to accept what floats my boat. Any kind of sunny path ahead is equally tough to visualise with schizophrenic voices hissing their usual hatred. I’m trying to focus on that handful of hugs and kisses I mentioned, that which separates me from ogre. The hard macho man goes out the window. I just want to be a likeable dude with a dollop of love in the marrow of his bones. A big softie, like, ya know. The gates are open: I simply have to walk through.