Undefined Redefined

Hello there, we’ve not seen each other in a while I know. I know I have failed with my once a week blog spectacularly but I hope you’ll forgive me eventually.

I have been on jury service for the past 2 months or so, and it has taught me a few things:

To be considerate, in both actions and thoughts

To not judge too quickly, but to trust your instincts

And never ever ever buy a used car if you can help it.

Anyway, I dont think you’ll be seeing me every weds- thurs- whenever i actually post as i did before. I’ve learnt that you can’t force it when its not there. I find myself actually writing longhand, something which i never did before due to lack of confidence in my hands.

I may transcribe some of those entries, but it doesnt seem likely.

In other news, I have been taking some pictures that I;d like to share with you, I’m toying with the idea of calling them ’ Spaces between places’ as they all seem to be alleyways and such. They are mainly to do with architecture and stone work, but may branch out into other interesting things as time goes by.

Also, if you could excuse the grammar/ spelling errors that would be grand; MS word has died on me so I’m typing straight into tumblr.

Peace out my cyber homies (appropriate hand gestures)

Its been a week of reminiscence for me, prompted by several internal and external sources. The external have been passing by people that I’ve known in the streets, sometimes mutual recognition and other times as a one way observation. Who I met isn’t that important, they were all minor players in the history of me, friends of friends or brief work colleagues. These people were single faceted aspects of my life; I knew them in a strict setting, be it school or the workplace.

The internal wellsprings of memory have been recollections of childhood activities, in this instances with both of my older sisters. They differ from the above sources as they are pinpoint memories of events or specific actions, rather then memories of generic interactions. They made me realise that we’ve grown apart as a family. Not that I don’t know we’re isolated emotionally from one another now, but that we were close before.

We live as part of this intricate web of social connections, almost invisible to our conscious perception.

This period of reminiscence has made me think of who I’ll meet in the future, what they’ll mean to me, in both meeting new people and rediscovering already known, like my sisters.

My siblings and I are isolated from one another, by time, distance and personalities and this has led to a certain enmity between us. Nothing too overt, but a subtle current through our relationships. I’m not sure why this is so, maybe because  I was the son of another man (though in my heart this seems unlikely).  I think it was because they were all relatively grown up when I was born. They were had there defined personalities, even my youngest sister, who was five. Then I came along, usurping their mother’s attention (which for them, was the direct result and indicator of love) for a considerable amount of time.

Its sad, because I know it’s not normal, not by normal standards, yet it’s the only way we can function.

I’m not sure what the theme of this post is, remembrance? Internal relationships? Sibling rivalry?  

Perhaps, like my siblings and I, it just is what it is, and we should live with that.

Ps. On a lighter note, I’ve procured some footage from Lucas, my brother in arms, and plan to make some vids on my youtube channel. Look out for those.

Peace.

Yeah thats not coming for a while i think, if at all.

I do however, have a little moral tale for you.

I did something that shocked me today. I ignored a person asking for change. Completely and utterly blanked their existence from my mind as I walked to the bus stop.

I wouldn’t consider myself an overly charitable person, I give and help for the same reason most of us do, to appease my own sense of guilt, but I never thought I was selfish, with my possessions or my time. By ignoring this woman, I was being selfish, I didn’t want to look her in the eye and tell her that no, I did not want to give her any money, for various reasons, one of them being that I don’t have a lot of it. That, perhaps, wasn’t the most shameful thing to admit, because we all do have to look after ourselves, and no one forces us to do anything regarding charity.

 What was more shame inducing was her reply;

‘Thanks love, God bless’ said without a lot of sarcasm. She was used to this treatment, to being ignored, passed on by, not deemed worthy of even a reply.

Not giving change to a homeless person doesn’t make you a bad person, ignoring them dehumanizes them, and that is wrong.

It was that reply that made me stop, turn and walk back to her (which took some time, she was a fast mover).I gave her some change, partly because I wanted to, partly to appease my own feelings of guilt. I apologized for ignoring her, and she repeated her reply, with genuine surprise.

The £1.20 probably isn’t going to be a massive boon to her, but I hope she has a bit more faith in humanity now.

Hello there everybody…what’s wrong? Why are you shocked? Yes, of course I know what day it is-

OH MY GOD ITS ACTUALLY WEDESDAY!!

Damn.

Comedy aside, I’d like to talk about legacy, what we leave behind, to our offspring.

I wanted to write about this for a while, but never felt I’ve been able to articulate my thoughts well enough, but I had a burst of inspiration while waiting to be called for jury service, in the jury waiting room, which overlooks the very bottom of the Headrow, across to the law sector and such places.

It was in the second floor of the Combined Courts, an imposing and regal building, that looks like a four year old designed it with a set of wooden blocks.

It’s always interesting to see old things from a new perspective, in this case the city. Buildings old and new, ranged together almost level with the eye, sharing a common skyline.  This phenomenon extends to other things, including yourself. You often get the true measure of yourself in the faces of others, it’s quite humbling.

But, on to the main topic.

What will we leave behind us when we’re gone? What lessons will future generations gain from our existence? Will they be tried and tested proverbs? My grandfather (mother side) had one he’s particularly fond of:

‘In every soldier’s kitbag is a marshals baton’ – NOTE; A marshals baton is token of office for the commander of an armed force, in this case the RAF.

He was in the RAF regiment during the Second War and it  means you can achieve anything if you work hard, something he’s told his generally apathetic grandson on more than one occasion.

Or, will they actions, or lack thereof that will teach us?

My own father taught me how to play chess, the rudiments of guitar playing and building of his own volition, but he taught me many things besides, unknowingly. These lessons were both profound and incredibly bitter but lessons nonetheless.

Alas, this will have to be a two parter, as my mother wants her laptop back, selfish cow.

PEACE

As pointed out to me by my only reader, I haven’t yet done my mid week blog.

This is due to a shift in the established norm of my life. Since Monday I have been serving as a member of a jury in Leeds Crown Court.

I had been relishing this chance for some time, to see democracy at work and to be a part of something that would effect the world I live in.

For the first two days, I have done nothing but read a book.

Just goes to show that somber dignified affairs have to be taken with a light heart.

I shall post a longer blog next mid week, as I have much to do this night, and I don’t wish to rush it.

Pax Britanica

I have a discussion topic for you tonight. It can be an external discussion, with others, or an internal one if you prefer.

It was late, close to closing and I was outside the café, getting some air and stacking the chairs, when u was assaulted , physically and verbally, by an elderly man with severe behavioural retardation.  He swore and spat almost continuously at everyone and no one, and in my specific instance, threw his food (take out box with two battered sausages and a roll) in my direction and lightly smacked his cane across my legs as I walked past (not light for lack of effort, I imagine he has arthritis also).

I don’t recount this encounter to paint the man as the villain, just to lay the groundwork for the following, indeed I feel no anger or animeity towards him, only a deep and genuine feeling of pity, because soon after throwing his almost untouched food at me, he came back and asked what had happened to it. I was struck my such a profound sense of pity that I was unable to speak for a moment. 

My point is this, why is this man allowed out without care or supervision of any kind? Again, I do not say this for any selfish reasons, that he’s an inconvience that we, as able bodied/ minded individuals shouldn’t have to put up with, but because he threw his food at me, and then didn’t know what happened to it. I can’t imagine that he has a lot of food at home, something tells me he has trouble shopping on his own.

I don’t know the extent of this man’s life, I only know what I’ve seen on the two occasions that I’ve encountered him (the first some years ago, in Chapel Allerton, and he was equally belligerent). What I know is that he is alone, unaided and without the mental capacity to function with other humans. What would happen if he smacked the wrong person? Not as understanding as me. I dread to think.

Going back to my question, I think I have the answer. Why is he left alone? Because it is easier, and proably cheaper,  to keep him out of care and give him money, as he evidently has some degree of skills, as he is always clothed and appears capable of getting food, albeit he has trouble holding on to it.

What is being done to help people in these situations and is it enough? When do we, as individuals, draw the line of help we are willing to render to one so difficult to help?

Think on it, you may be surprised with the answer.

On an unrelated note, to give some balance to this post, I’ve found a alternative version of the popular Eminem track ‘Stan’, without Dido replaced by a male vocal (just wiki’d, its Elton john haha some music buff I am) and a very nice piano undertones, which shows that two very different artists can come together to create something both new and original, which is outstanding.

On June 24, about 23.2 million tuned in to watch England get there ass handed to them in penalties after dancing a rather remarkable set for 120 mins. On that day, I was one of those millions, sitting with the girlfriend and her relations, baying like a animal at every close call and near miss. I don’t even like football, but theres something about big live matches that get me going.

On the way back from said girlfriends, I heard most of the fellow bus users discussing the match, I felt that urge to join in with them, to discuss the ins and outs, felt that there was a sense of brotherhood, communion between random strangers and myself. I didn’t talk to anyone about anything, other then the obligatory ticket flash nod combo and thank you to the driver. Its just not in my nature, but I appreciated the feeling.

That’s one good thing about football (and there aren’t many in my book), is that it does bring people together, gives common ground and makes you feel part of something big, which most of us seem to crave.

There are of course, negatives to football, outside of the sport itself(they get paid far to much), the racism, the us vs them attitude of the spectators and the well known ‘footie thug’ image that has prevailed since the mid 80’s. They spoil a generally likeable sport, which is sad.

But back to companionship, both intimate and otherwise. I am, by nature, quite a solitary fellow, I can go long periods without human contact and it not effect me (apart from seeing the lovely). I can get along very well with people, I’m not a hermit or anything, but I do tend to avoid large groups of people, unless they are made up of my close friends.

I’ve wondered somewhat from the main topic, for which I apologise. Hell I’m not even sure what my point is with this entry. Does everything need a conclusive end?

As a matter of obligation to the ones I care about, I should talk a little about yesterday.

It was like any other day, I got up, I talked to my family, and there was some communion about the facts of the day, but other then that it was just me and the family, doing what we occasionally do.

There are moments in everyday life that break my heart. Little revelations about the future and the past. I think these moments are more potent then the actual chronological date of my fathers death.

Also, a curious thing that I’ve noticed is that my father and I are quite alike. Not in a physical sense (not that I’ve just noticed that that is), but little things. We both knew/ know how to do a type of knot. Theres a gate he built, and to act as a catch for holding it open, he tired a bit of nylon string around the hand rail, forming a loop. The knot he used I imagine he picked up somewhere along the way in his studies as a carpenter (though I’ll never know, and that nags at me in a sad way), whereas I learnt from a survival manual (the zombies are coming guys). Its that and more little unexpected connections that reminded me that we are linked. That is both a source of comfort and sorrow, rather paradoxically.

I’ve written it before, but I think it ties this off nicely;

A life has been lived, and I am thankful for it.   

I’d like to share with you the past few days of my life, and what they have taught me.

Some have been practical lessons:

Always have credit.

Always ask questions

Always, always chain you’re bike up.

Be observant.

Some were more potent lessons, things I’ve learnt about myself and life

Listen to the one’s who love you.

 Anger is easier then grief.

Believe.

Having read that list, I bet you’re wfting like a bitch.

 Well, here it is.

On Thursday last, I bought a new bike: a shiny silver beast called Wanda after much dicking around with payment and online deals and such.

By Friday evening, it had been removed from my possession. But that’s the last thing of my trio of woes on that Friday, and I shall return to it (ahh the master of suspence!)

1. An incident at work landed me in some verbal shit regarding payment for some coffee and pasta, which lead to a very spirited disagreement between myself and the manager.

2. A brief and somewhat awkward standoff with my girlfriend about how much we see each other and why. Basically a misunderstanding of wording, but it left a sour taste between us.

3. Bike removed from possession, thinking it had been stolen. They left a note with a phone number, Leeds city council and the names Rob or Lee (come on, ROBBERY am I right?)

 The rest of the night passed in a difficult, awkward and generally uncomfortable manner, though me and she had a talk about stuff, and I learnt for the first time that my own anger effects others, and that I need to change myself so I don’t hurt the ones I love the most. A difficult task, but after almost five years, there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for her, (within reason, she’s not having a kidney or anything).

I think that’s the hallmark of a long relationship, wanting to change for the other,. Not in a controlling, wear this tie dump your mates BE WITH ME kind of way.

Anyway, back to it. I call the number on Monday, without much hope, and to my eternal joy, it is actually a council installation that has my bike. I fist pump vigorously for about 5 minutes straight, and then at irregular instances throughout the day. Do you want to know the real mind fucker? I hadn’t actually chained my bike to anything, just unclipped my chain from my bike and re-clipped it without threading it around. I put it down to tiredness and unfamiliarly (I hadn’t rode from some weeks beforehand and my muscle memory is somewhat poor). The street wardens had seen this and taken the bike to their station to keep it safe, and I imagine, to teach me a well deserved lesson. I am currently drafting a thank you/ recommendation letter, just need to figure out who to send it too.

 When I came home on Tuesday, triumphant and humbled, my mother had received a letter from the taxman with a bank order for about £1500 in over paid taxes.

My girlfriend had said to me the day before, whilst I was in a fug of anger and bitterness, that my father was watching over me, as departed spirits of loved ones do and that I should have faith in him, perhaps more in death then I did in life. I didn’t believe her (and even went as far as scoffing her internally, I’m genuinely ashamed to admit) but now I’m forced to rethink, if not accept fully, that she may have a point. Part of me wants to believe, another part wants to lay him to rest completely and move on, but I don’t know much about either.

I’m more inclined to believe that life is balance, that good and bad things happen in equal measure, and that the rest is just perception of these twists and turns. Its by no means a definitive belief that I can base my actions on, but its mine nonetheless.

 This has been my considerable longer then usual midweek blog, probably to make up for my poor attempt last week.

I’m going to be quite honest with you readers (ok, redader, lets face it, you’re the only one who reads these Hayley) I’ve got nothing.

I’ve been racking my brain cell all day, trying to think of something meaningful to write. I;ve had a few starters; memories, escapism and music, the usage of words but none of them have stuck. I think its because my mind is so occupied with current and past events, that I can’t even escape into thinking, as I usually do.  

Its coming up to two years since my father’s death (what the fuck do I call that? Death day seems a bit macabre to use in casual conversation), and this leads me down a different mental pathway, one I’m  less inclined to share with people.

Maybe my lack of escapism is a good thing, maybe I need to stop running from my grief and face it head on. I’m not going to lie, that’s what I’ve been doing for the past two years. Running, hiding from what hurts because I don’t want to think about it, don’t want to face reality.

Anyway, I may have something better for you on the 27^th.

Oh, I also have Jury service on the 9^th of next month, so that should be interesting.

Crappy pseudo Wednesday blog over.

Creativity. Making something from idea to reality. This process has been behind human actions since the dawn of our awareness.

We all know HOW to create, its instinctive. In varying degrees of course, but everyone has the basic mental tools.

We know WHAT to create. Whether its words, audio, visual or a combination of all, we know what form our creativity takes. It , may take us some time and a few tries to get the right form, but we can do it.

But how many of us know WHY we create?

What drives us to take things that are in our heads, and represent them in the real world for all to see?

Some, myself included, create worlds to escape to. Worlds that are fantastic and wondrous, or so totally horrific that we can live a simpler life through them, unburdening us from what we may perceive as our shortcomings in this life.

Some create because they feel compelled by the subject matter, which I think might be the purest form of creation (though that doesn’t mean to say it is the best).

Others, more ancient ones, created to explain the world around them. This is the basis of myths (though not legends, which usually have a base in fact that gets distorted by the Chinese whispers effect). The Norsemen created Odin, Thor and the like to represent the seasons, tides and the harsh mountains that dominated their existence. They lived by these stories, more the main part, and committed them to memory and scripture to preserve them in order for future generations might live as they did, safe in the knowledge that the god’s knew what was happening.

Other, more complicated myths formed into what we called religions, but that’s another blog.

I know I’ve touched on a few subjects in this post, but the main one I want to focus on is the reason why we create, and the effect that it has, as a process, on us as individuals and as a society of humans. I think it brings us together, no matter what the actual thing you create is. It’s the process, the same mental to physical journey that we all share, if only we could realise it, we might live in a better place.

I suppose I’m done, though I feel I’ve missed out some key points that I can’t quite place.

Oh, I’m also getting a new steed tomorrow, as Deborah (yep, she had a name), has passed away, due to front break fractures.

I think I may called this one Nathaniel…

In my life, I am surrounded by strong people. Not in the physical sense very much, but in spirit.

My mother, is possibly the strongest woman I have ever met. Those that know the story will agree, though I won’t go into the details here because in all honesty its heart-breaking. She works like a dog, in a job she doesn’t like and basically supports my lame ass along with my lamer ass brother. She is the rock of my world after my father’s death. (the two year mark is swiftly approaching and my mind is somewhat perplexed at that particular passage of time, but that’s for another blog).

She struggles, and suffers, and she has bad days, days where everything seems pointless and yet she still gets up, still trolls to work and generally bamfs it up. She’s 56 and she works harder in a week then I ever have in my entire life.

The second is my friend Hayley. She has a condition called CMT (Charcot Marie Tooth, after the three physicians that were prominent in defining the condition). It’s a form of muscular dysthorpy (I know I haven’t spelt that bastard right, I cant even say it). In basic terms, her muscles, bones and nerves are screwed up, and this causes pain, quite a considerable amount of pain, both intense and long lasting, along with a history of both minor and major operations to insert and remove various materials from her lower appendages

Yet, if you ever met her you’d think she was quite ‘normal’. She goes to uni, partys like a demon and all that jazz and generally leads the life she likes, without letting her condition stop her much (though there is some considerations she has to make, she works around).

But, like my mother, she has her bad days. When things seem too much, she employs a little escapism, in the form of pictures of past nights out (serious pap freak) and Disney related media. She also looks at what she has that’s good in her life, which I think is a rare quality in our generation.

I am deeply thankful I have these people, amongst others, in my life. To lean on, to share the good and the bad, and to quietly follow their example as best I can in order to live well.

But, as a general thought, I have the following questions:

What is the price of strength?

 And when does it become too costly?

As humans, what is our tolerance to hardship, how much crap can we take before we are irrevocably different?

This has been my Wednesday blog, which I am seriously thinking of renaming my early Thursday morning blog.

Its that time of the week again. Its Wednesday blogging!!

Yeah, I know its Thursday morning, but I work late.

I had all these great ideas for today’s entry but they’ve all flown my mind. I may do an update with the things I remember.

I’m currently watching Cast Away with mother, marvelling as the portrayal of survival and its effects on the human mind, including the rehabilitation into a ‘normal’ life, which you don’t see often in survival films. Its quite epic, in the true sense of the word, not the diluted version I use perhaps too much.

Just goes to show what an exceptional group of people can achieve when driven by a passion for what they do, it’s a shame there isn’t more of that in the industry these days.

Not that its completely dead or anything, there’s just a lot of shite, only out to make money, which is sad, but its films like Cast Away, and countless others, professional and amateur alike that inspire me and many others to create.

It seems this blog about inspiration.

So what inspires you?

Wednesday Blog. No 1.

So I thought I’d start a thing tonight (well, very very early this morning if you’re going to be pedantic). This thing is to blog every Wednesday, barring incident (such as thinking of the idea of the aforementioned very  Thursday morning).

This stems from two things; One I used to write in my journal (aka the Vintage Blog) every other Wednesday after I had been to the job centre and was waiting to see my lovely girlfriend so I thought it seemed like a good tradition to carry on, albeit it in a more public manner.

Secondly, I realise I have no creative goals. At least, none with definable time scales or relevant future. I think it would do me good to set myself this goal to sit down and think (and more importantly, write). It’ll sharpen my mind and my general thought to action mechanism, which I have to admit, is poor. My mind is a wondrous place, full of ideas and grand plans, adventures and perils, but getting out of my head and into the world is one of the hardest things ever, infinitely more difficult then actually conceiving the idea in the first place if you ask me.

So, here’s my first Wednesday Blog

I hope I remember to do this every week.

(yes I know its Thursday but we’ve been over this yes?)

This following blog is much like a list, for which I apologise.

My day.

I left the house at about 8:45, after a cuddle from the girlfriend and a bowl of sugar puffs, onwards to a 4 something mile bike ride through the wind and rain. Yay.

I arrived at work, quite early, so I went to the shop, bought an energy shot that I think might give you stomach cancer, but hey ho.

I work at LS6 café, a café in, you guessed it, the LS6 district of Leeds formerly the Clock Café because of its many clocks (only one of which tells the correct time).

For those of you who haven’t been, not to be a plugger, but it’s a great little place if you’ve got some extra cash to spend (yeah budget it ain’t) its full of vintage décor, done well and without being tacky.

Advert over. 

My first task, after some general buffoonery trying to understand a very thick polish accent, was to make fresh orange juice using several dozen oranges and a contraption that looks like it belongs in a steel mill, albeit with a sweeter out come.

Then things got shit heavy, orders and service and general insanity until a very interesting customer ambled (yeah I think that describes it best) on over to me to place an order, even though this usually done at the tables and I was at the bar. Who is this rebel of the service industry!?

It took me a moment (and two eggs Benedict) to realise that this blue/green haired maverick of the Sunday café scene, was in fact Tom Milsom, of Chameleon Circuit and various other protects of awesomeness.

I stood aghast. (in the intonation of amazed/ awed, not horrified).

Tom Milsom, Tom mother f**king Milsom in my café?!

I took the order, all the while trying not to be a swooning fanboy

I failed:

Me, “I know you,” (mad stalker, killing you because I love you voice).

Tom, “Do you? Where from?”

Me “You KNOW” (like it was some kind of secret? What a dumbass I am).

Me : “Just wanted to say, its great to have met you,” (the first instance of a day long bout of goofy smile)

Tom : ‘Ah cool man, what’s your name?” (Hand offered, heart beat tripled)

Me; (promptly forgot own name) Morgan.

We parted ways, me staring at him a tad too much for someone you’ve only seen videos of, him to table 25 and me to my many duties of café work…which from that point on seemed to be completely comprised of smiling and finding excuses to look at 25….yeah… I did other stuff, like serving people food and shit (not at the same time, as this isn’t considered proper service attitude)

I keep an ear out for the food bell (wielded by an deadpan Polish woman whose handy with blades,) taking out all orders, praying for 25 to pop up.

After what seemed like a life time of about 10 mins, I was carrying two eggs Benedict to 25, and the trio(yeah forgot to mention he came with friends, sorry friends) were perusing a mixture of the dictionary and a book entitled ‘How Leeds Changed the World’, which as Tom pointed out to me (to me!!) was more how the author of how Leeds changed the world changed the world.

“This is an incredibly biased book’ Tom said, (paraphrase)

And me, being the king of wit in that moment.

“All history is biased,” I said somewhat sagely, to which Tom agreed, and left me doing the Freddy mercury meme pose combined with epic win toddler internally (and a lil bit externally cough cough, my apologies to table four for making your child jump).

The rest of the day passed without incident (expect form some more swooning as Tom bid me goodbye ‘Catch you around bro,’. Seriously, my face hurts from all the smiling).

At the end of my shift, I took a moment to chill with some carrot cake before saddling up the steely beast (a purple Raleigh Enigma) and heading home.

I arrived sodden and sore to the homestead, and in no time at all had a minor argument with my mother.

It was one of those tiffs you have when you’re both just generally irritated, and I will go down and cool it out with her.

Epic day and it was only my second day as well.

Who will I meet tomorrow, Jesus?

I was speaking to my girlfriend the other night (one of the few nights we were NOT making avid, passionate love on the veranda I assure you) about a friend of mine who is thinking of leaving university after only their first year. They are doing a performance course, the specifics of it flee my mind (I’m a world class friend, honestly). So, The Friend wants to leave said course, and try to make it own their own, citing that the course is not teaching them anything. I pointed out that just because you are not learning something does not mean that it isn’t being taught. But this isn’t the main topic of my post. It is their life, their choice. I’m a firm believer of making your own choices, and being left to do so, even if it is the wrong one.

So, back to the non sexual night talk with girlfriend (And I was joking about the passionate love comment, I don’t even have a veranda), and she said, with a touch of humble insight I haven’t seen in a while

“We’re a generation of dreamers. The vast majority of us aren’t going to set the world on fire and there comes a point where we have to accept that and move on. The media has lead us to believe that anyone can achieve anything, that everything is possible. If it were we’d need a lot more possibilities then we do now.”

I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the theme of the quote. This got me thinking about the nature of determination and acceptance. I think it’s a great quality to be determined in life, to succeed at work, (or in my case get a job), to better yourself through education and exercise, but does there come a point where we need to sit back from our pressure induced conform-consume life style and realise that we are all we can be, and that that current state of completion differs from what we thought we were going to be?

I think there does, and it might come quite early on in life for some people. The true test of it is whether we accept that we can’t be all we thought we could, and become comfortable and confident in ourselves as people, or whether we strive to compete with what we think we should be able to do, and by not achieving this (supposedly) higher state of being, we turn our anger to the world for ‘not giving us enough chances’ or ‘bad luck’ or the worst of all, turning that frustration and inadequacy inward, upon ourselves like a slowing burning fire.

That being said, some of us can truly have the potential to set the world ablaze with our magnificence, so perhaps The Friend’s wrong choice will turn into a fated leap of faith (try saying that riding a yak backwards). Either way, I’ll be there to support and love them, as I’m sure they would for me.

EDIT; After some feedback i’ve discovered that it sounds like I’m bashing dreamers. This is not my intention. I am a consumate dreamer. Dreamers are the pioneers of the human race, and without them we’d be doomed to stagnation.

Just thought i’d clear that up. Peace.

All you need is love