Why I write

I write because writing doesn’t do the world any good: it doesn’t end wars, doesn’t eradicate poverty, doesn’t cure diseases or gives food to starving people. But nevertheless, writing makes me feel more useful than anything else.

My mind.

I dreamt about you last night. Once again, one of those bizarre alter reality ones. Where the only thing that made sense was the knowledge that you would be back. Yes, in the dream I knew you were dead, but also knew you could come back and it was not supposed to be metaphysically impossible. Once again it was cruel, as not even in MY dream could I…

A debate on happiness.

Does anyone even know what ‘happiness’ is?

Since it seems that we each of us has a different definition/perception/expectation of it?

Since what can make me happy does not seem to have any effect on my fellows?

My life

“She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom”

– N. Hawthorne

I used to describe it as “my oxygen”

I just I didn’t realise then that my mind was telling me that I COULDN’T BREATHE

#fromastoryIllneverwrite