A butterfly or a moth
A mouse or a rat
Life in damp places
Life lived uphill

Clutter or calm
Grounded again
Body is lost
Start over

Walking a forever staircase
Happiness sits far away

Forwards to the other side?
A bit like my mind

Taunting the sun
Toying with its rays

Indifferent glow
Walls peel like skin

Colours alight
Doping up on energy

Lately
Everything is flat
No textures to touch
Tastes are bland
Breaths are disappointing
Colours or none
Instead of scratches and prickles
I want things to stab
And shatter

Click on the cover to view the book… and click your way through the pages.

The little book tool is pretty simple and if for any reason you can’t view it, let me know. It isn’t suitable for small screens at the moment, but any smaller and it would not be readable anyway. It’s difficult to effectively show a book online.

The physical version is 12 x 12 inches, hard cover and 52 pages.

An illegible message carved into the sand: perhaps the name of a stranger; the symbols for peace; for love. The sand’s texture is thick, grainy, inconsistent. Not the kind associated with pure, white, clear-watered beaches. Its colour is a dark brown. The same shade in clothing might be called chocolate or coffee. But here it reminds of dirt, mud, filth, shit. Yet it’s teeming with life; with more beauty than could ever be found on a white holiday-friendly beach.

I watch an ibis go about its business. I remember a time when I thought they were ugly. I thought they were a pest sifting through bins. It was the religion with which I was brought up that lead me to believe a bird was inferior. That humans were the centre of the universe and animals were simply put here for us to make use of. But I now know that I am not above such a creature. As long as I had that mindset I was far inferior.

So I see ibis walking along concrete and digging through bins. I wonder if there used to be a tree in the bin’s place. Did the bird nest there? Feed there?

I wonder if while we were evolving into a more "civilised" being, maybe the ibis stayed much the same. It had no need for anything more. Surely the greatest influence in its evolutionary history is happening right now thanks to mankind…or not so kind. To reach our place at the top of the food chain I doubt much kindness was responsible.

Often when I’m lying down hoping to get to sleep, it occurs to me I’m not breathing in much air. My nose doesn’t seem to be allowing in enough oxygen.

I try to take in deeper breaths but I need to exhale before I’ve finished inhaling. I begin to panic. I have to sit up and try to relax. This can only happen when I stop thinking about it.

Eventually I calm and lay back down, hoping it doesn’t happen again. But hoping means I’m thinking about it.

Sometimes this exhaustive cycle is what eventually gets me to sleep.

Somewhere on the side of the road between the hot tar and the cracked desert.

Like the earth’s skin. With its pores, its hairs, its imperfections, but without perspiration.

I was having a discussion with a friend about childhood and the time in our lives which shapes us the most. We talked about our grandparents’ failing memories; How they seem to lose most of them but those from a certain point in childhood remain vivid.

In my childhood photos I can hardly recognise myself. I got used to the images of me as a child smiling. But around the forced expressions I see a little boy I didn’t used to think was really me. As time goes by I’m beginning to feel that maybe these images are the only ones I’m really in. Though it’s difficult to know as by the time I sort through these thoughts and put them into words, I forget why I’m doing it.

Every time I read about somebody with depression, they say how if it was not for their partner/their kids/their friends/their pet, they would not have made it this far.

I wonder what I have. I do have things. I have people. I have a pet. But nothing makes me feel like everything will be alright. This makes me wonder if I do have something.

So what of those who don’t have anything to keep them from sinking? We don’t get to hear about them? Did they not make it this far?

My favourite sections are the dolls and the clothing. The dolls and plush toys range from modern and chirpy to ancient and unsettling. Discarded through progress and neglected with age.

The clothing is different to any store or wardrobe. It’s difficult to imagine where much of it came from. There’s a whole section just for denim. Maid uniforms hanging from the rafters upon mannequin torsos seemed to share a moment with me.

Something different.
Something unusual.
Something new.
Something a little less ordinary.
Something strange.
Something to heighten the senses.
Something to whet the appetite.
Something to shake up the bloodstream.
Something to brighten the mood.
Something for a moment.
Something while it lasts.
Something worth remembering.

When the skies open up and the power overcomes, my heart beats rapidly. It’s a chance to witness something above our species. A force we cannot tame.

As the dust begins to dissipate, the colour hides away and signs of same are revealed on the horizon. After a brief respite it was soon back to monotony.

I always get an urge to stop the car when I see roadkill. Sometimes to move the animal to save it from endless tyres. But often I don’t really know why.

Society today seems to shield us from being face to face with death, yet we’re exposed to so much more from a distance.

When I walk back from my car towards the animal, I don’t feel sad. Sometimes there is a fear that I’ll see something hard to look at, but generally I just curiously want to sit beside reality.

I don’t worry about small things. The superficiality of everyday modern living becomes insignificant. Something usually ignored seems more important. It holds more purpose than our petty concerns.

To society common, I’m seen as strange for prefering this to going home to watch CSI on television. But the more I think about it, the other way around just seems strange. I suppose the difference is that I am thinking, whereas the alternative is an exercise in preventing thought.

The pastel blues, purples and pinks are so fleeting. I want to live somewhere with a prolonged twilight. Somewhere the sky reflects infinite colours of subtle variation. And the fairytale is prolonged.

In order for life to continue, life must be consumed. At the top of the food chain, our closet of skeletons is the biggest of all. The progression of mankind is the result of a history of violence. Our intelligence is thanks to murder.

It’s hard for many to accept that a mosquito has no higher purpose. That the viruses it spreads do not exist for a reason which is somehow beneficial to us in the long run.

A female mosquito requires blood in order to breed and one of its favourite sources is humans. The method in which the mosquito extracts blood can allow the transfer of viruses.

It’s been 18 months since I was bitten and I can still barely walk most days. Yet each day I seem to become more frustrated with people (in all our wisdom) than I do with mosquitos.

My only motivation to write is to interrupt the pure, blankness of the page. It’s a struggle to bring myself to the task. A task… That must be why I fight it.

During those several weeks I never saw it as a task. To pick up a pen and paper was a relief. It was a way to catch the overflow; a way to stop the drain.

Sometimes I try to draw comparisons with the ringing noises. Crickets? Cicadas? Screams? It’s not an easy thing to do. Rehearsing in my head… for my head… using memories from my head… while my head screams at me. It feels like I need to reach beyond consciousness. But it’s hard to focus. And it’s hard to think about focusing.

Until… reboot. I can’t remember what I was thinking. I can’t think of what I’m trying to remember. Yet I can see it falling away. But it’s dark. Well it’s not even physical. There is nothing to see. Though I keep trying, and every grasp to hang on further shakes the foundations. Sometimes the tremor plateaus. Sometimes the plateau breaks apart.