Feel more, think less

Don’t listen to psychologists trying to box you into categories of being, categories of feeling, categories of your mental state.

You can think someone is a total fuckwit and genuinely care for them.

You can hate an attribute of your spouse with enough rage to want to punch them in the throat yet settle to spooning at night.

You can think people are total idiots in their life and still be utterly attracted to something about them you can’t put your finger on.

You can feel fifty shades of fucked and still be normal.

The idea that your feelings should be contained and ostracised, cut down and pruned to suit an idea of normal, that a long dead looney fantasised is normal a hundred and fifty years ago is total and utter bullshit.

What’s abnormal is not ever being taught how to carry yourself with dignity irrespective of those feelings and instead use that feeling or state to justify shitty behaviour.

Feel more, think less about it,

but act proper for fucks sake.


Introversion – eight


Schizophrenia is a man made lie
to convince people who have no inner
life that they are the normal ones.

Must we? Really?
Lie to each other about the void you live with dear psychiatrist?

You sit comfortably with your glasses on the tip of your nose, turtle neck woollens, a leg over the other in an office that smells of retired leather, and books that scream, please read me but are sealed with the glue of dust.

Your pad is in your hand with your Mont Blanc Biro. Your voice as empty as you are, you cannot be any more cliché. You prattle your regurgitated lines, spoken in monotone, seriously, like you just received divine inspiration. Oh you’re an actor! I can sniff you out a mile away.

You live by three letters. D.S.M. You have no life other than prattling the make believe that this book has come to be.  If the D.S.M. says it, then it is true and with the same breath you have a label for people who believe in holy books and follow religion.

No, it is you that is abnormal, carefully constructing a fake life to be able to pretend others that have an inner life are abnormal.

You’ve abused yourself for so long through superficialities that you no longer hear your inner voice, you only hear the voices of approval as you minecraft your life to their acceptances and add to the tally other peoples lives whom you can’t stand being more interesting.

Footnote: I am not kidding, the D.S.M. is one of the most cleverly concocted lies known to our lifetime. Dr Abram Hoffer proved for over forty years that Schizophrenia is not a mental condition, disease or any other label. With nothing more than very high loads of vitamins and minerals, but they don’t make money, don’t sound as exotic and don’t fill the void of peoples lives who have been convinced that they are abnormal and ironically need an equally abnormal treatment method that doesn’t work.

Raging Love – Just another day





He threw the kitchen knife at her, “Fuck you, what the fuck did I do to you?”

Her eyes red with rage, she swiftly ducked and with a samurai like movement made two steps, grabbed his Biro off the bench and stabbed him in his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Ironic isn’t it you piece of shit, you throw a knife at me in my kitchen and miss but I stab you with your fucking muse, admit it, you never loved me, you….”

“What on earth are you on about now you psychopath? Whilst you snore I sit counting your breaths for so long that I forget to breathe myself.”

“I snore? You wish I do, you’re probably thinking of your mother, you arse hole.”

“Nope, it’s you sweet piggy,” he ducks a book, “I know it’s you because I don’t give a shit about the fruits in your hair as you smother your eau de parfum of cigarettes in your roots with Estee but I feel the weight of your head get heavier on my outstretched arm and I know the time it takes for you to go from falling asleep, to deep sleep, completely gone because my arm goes from pulsating back against your head to completely dead, lifeless, circulation cut and no pulse. So shove your denial up your arse.”

“You’re so full of it Mr word smith, you could convince the night it’s white and silence it’s loud, you’re the one who falls asleep first. Breath? Huh, I notice how you slow down from your adrenaline filled vein pulsating sprint breathing to a slow rhapsody of puffs. Only then do I know I can curl your body, fashion it as I please to make pillows to arch my body against.”

“Yeah whatever, you love to lie. How could I be pillows if I’m awake before you and you have three alarms on your phone and two on the radio alarm clock blaring at you and your face is still buried in a pillow. You may as well be dead.”

“I’ll kill you if it means I’ll kill myself too you prick! For thirteen years I’ve been struggling to get up to those alarms but, I wake when I hear your voice instantly don’t I you unappreciative low life.”

“Unappreciative? Nah, I see the clothes you lay out for me from the night before, perfectly folded, fabric softener scented and pressed collars, I’m not blind you know”.

“You are blind; as you don’t see that I see the perfect disarrangement of clothes, scattered hallway to shower, forcing me to pick up remnants of your soul, my soul after you’ve left the house. Forcing me to trace your scent down the stairs and to the kitchen, then back out the foyer and to the door where I lose you to the particles of air. I close that door every morning hoping I don’t see you again but I get to the kitchen bench and there you are. You leave behind a heart poured through a silky white Rosetta latte, gold elixir wafting through the air that you made with your own hands and the cups brim still smells like your fragrance. I drink your heart and when I get to the last drop, you serve me divorce papers for eight hours. Eight hours you make me suffer with nothing more than lactose intolerance as a reminder of your painful love you leave lingering in the pit of my stomach.”

“You see that? Really? I see the hardship written in the paragraphs on your forehead as I come back home, I know there’s stories penned there and prose etched in the salt stains on your cheeks waiting for me to read it and you know how much I love to read, but I can’t open your book just yet, not when the garbage bags of my daily dealings needs to be tied up and moved away, away enough for the stench not to offend you or anyone at home. Just give me five minutes to collect my…”

“…Thoughts? Guess what your son did today? Guess what your other son did to his younger brother? Guess what your daughter drew today? Guess what the little one broke today? Guess whose mother died.What do you think about that?”

“Wow, I can’t believe they’re growing so quick, I never knew he had it in him, I always knew she’s an artist, and fuck it, it’s just a vase. I don’t know her mother do I? You know I’ve never been emotional about death, what can I say? But I did miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you don’t notice me?”

“Hah! You’re deluded. I notice, trust me I notice. Like when I smell Narciso Rodriguez top noted with mascara float into the room, I know the kids are asleep, you’ve showered your woes away and got your lingerie on. I know it’s an invitation to shut down for the night and to head to bed. I know that you lay in bed and pretend to go to sleep because you add one more breath than you took the night before, before you fall asleep to see if I am paying attention. I notice you bitch!”

“Fuck you, I love you”.


A cure for anxiety – Extract from Remembering God by Charles Le Gai Eaton



I have revisited this quote countless times this week and I feel I will visit it countless more. A reminder of the nature of affairs.

Fatalism, as an attitude to life in general, is retrospective. Only when something has happened can we say that it had to happen. The notion that it makes people inactive is disproved by experience. The courage of the Prophet’s Companions, going into battle against overwhelming odds, must certainly have owed something to the conviction that the outcome of the battle was in God’s hands, not theirs, and that they would die not a moment before or after “a time appointed”. If their time had not yet come, the enemy’s weaponry would prove to be no more dangerous than a child’s toys; if they were fated to meet their end that day, nothing they did could prevent this. In our time, countless men and women suffer extreme stress in their work and this is often due to the belief that “everything depends on me”. For the Muslim, everything depends on God; nothing “depends on me”. Paradoxical as it may seem, the conviction that all is pre-ordained is liberating, whereas belief in total freedom of choice creates, for those who hold it, a prison of anxiety and uncertainty. It is for us to act. The outcome of our actions is God’s business, not ours. It is for us to do what is right under all circumstances. Subsequent failures does not mean that right action was, after all, wrong.

From Charles Le Gai Eaton’s book Remembering God

A supplication taught to Muslims by the Prophet Muhammad. On reflection, it is easy to adapt this into your life no matter what your religious inclination.