Being Human and Mental Illness pt 2


My relationship to music is a very intimate one. I have often said that if it wasn’t for the presence of music in my life I would be dead. Perhaps physically, perhaps just emotionally. I cannot say for sure. But I have my guesses.

Throughout life I have been dealt some heavy instances, somethings I am only now understanding where not at all okay for a child to endure. And in my darkest hours music was there for me. From my walkman, to my discman, to my ipod, to my smartphone – it was and is rare that i didn’t/don’t have my comfort blanket on hand. Music, It never hurt me, it never abandoned me, and it held me and those I held dear when no one else would – or could.

Today was a dark morning for me, Dolores O’Riordan the lead singer to The Cranberries was found dead in her hotel room late last night. I’m crushed, and a sea of torrential tears followed. Dolores was not just her music, she was a Female lead in a country that certainly didn’t encourage that, she was fierce Irish Woman battling mental illness, she was an artist and a revolutionary, she was a Mother of three, she was 46, she was a heroine of mine since I was a small girl. She was art, and her art saved my life.

In Dolores I saw my own reflection. She taught me it was okay to be a rebel, to be a poet, to be different. In the end, in her ending, Music couldn’t save her, but it saved me.

Growing up my Mother loved The Cranberries, my mother loved music in general and most of our days were filled with the shared dance that came with knowing that all we had was each other, and our music. The Cranberries, The Stone Temple Pilots, David Bowie, Queen, and SoundGarden were all a staple. Now their front people are elsewhere than in the living realm. Dead, but not really.
When things got hard, as they often did, music would blare out our car window as we drove, just drove anywhere and listened to music. When my Mom and Stepdad’s domestic abuse would reach a crescendo, music would cradle us in our shared strife. Music was a Mother to me when my own Mother couldn’t be there, Music was her Mother too. The Cranberries often took this space. Her heartfelt irish wails cascading over our shared sorrowing. It encouraged nourishment, grieving, and going forward – only because of the fodder these sounds provided us.

I found home only in my Mother, but something in Dolores’s songs, in her voice reminded me of a home I had not felt yet. It reminded me of my blood’s mother land, it reminded me that revolution, courage and endurance ran through my veins. That I was put on this earth to be brave, that I was put here to receive and to give back ten fold.

Fast forward to me, age 15 – I’m sad, I’m lost and I have no fucking idea what am doing. I need guidance, I need support, I need something – but I am alone, scared and in that strange place in-between being a child and an adult. I reach a space of breaking, and for the first time in my life I go further than just contemplating suicide. In the Fall of my 15th year I took every pill in my house and waited for death to retrieve me, I was tired – and now looking back I understand that I was more tired than any girl my age should have been. The world was on my shoulders and I didn’t know how to ask for help. So I waited, and I listened to music. I listened to The Cranberries album “No need to argue” on repeat, and I cried whilst clutching my “last slurpee”. Melodramatic, hell yes. I never claimed anything different.

The immense physical pain hit, and the music played on. In my delirium it sounded as if she was singing to me, good gods I just wanted a strong, kind, Woman to sing to me. She sang her sonnets, these songs that effected me in a way I had no capacity to understand at that point. And suddenly my breaking point hit a wall; No. I didn’t want to die, I really didn’t. I just wanted someone to sing to me, hold me, and to empower me to make change in my own way. I just wanted a world where people would sing to each other when things became broken. I called 9-1-1 and they were there within 10 minutes.

I lived, obviously – and while I would like to say I was healed completely, I cannot boast such a thing. There were many other slip ups over the next ten years, the scars on my body only a minor reflection of the scars inside. But I was a little bit healed, and a lot less dead than I had planned. Bonus!
Music, has always been the salve that enabled me to pick myself up again, music has saved my life so many times. My desire was only to return that favour with my own artistic expression.

But Dolores is dead, and while this is shattering news to me I am proud that I do not feel the need to join her. We live in a world that does not know how to tend to the mentally ill, A world that sees it as something to be swept under the rug, as a cultural burden. This is bullshit, as it was the culture it’s self that enabled these woundings.

I woke up this morning and I sobbed for an hour, at first I sobbed for her death, and then I sobbed with terror – if she one of my heroines could not do it, then how the fuck could I? Much like I felt when Michael Stone and Chris Cornel had lost their battle with mental illness. They were so strong, how could I possibly keep fighting a battle they lost? And then I cried for her Children, I cried for her fans, her band, and then the plethora of people in the world that felt weaker knowing she had succumbed to her grief.

And then I cried for my mother, she was my best friend, my sister, my home – and now we are estranged. She choose a much different, and very much conflicting path than I. And after Amplify Her came out what little remained of our relationship imploded. These past 3 months I have lost a hero, a home, a Mama, and a very toxic relationship between them all. I cried because I knew somewhere, she was crying too.

I miss my mom, I miss Dolores, and I miss all my dead heroes.

But I still have their music. In addition to that I have my own. and perhaps that is the only respectful form of immortality available to us. One day, I will die, I will feed life with my death and that is proper; but perhaps having lived in such a way that the music and art flowed through me authentically I would be offered the ability to keep giving after my dying. Much like Dolores has.

Her death was too soon, I will not fuck around and say otherwise. She lived in a sad world, one that we all lived in – and she gave until she could not anymore.

I have much to give, far past my young age, far past her age of 46, I have shit to do and a world to fill with art and love. And I promise you I will not do this alone.

There are no lone wolves in the wild, lone wolves die.

Thank you Dolores, thank you so god-damn much for holding me and the others that you did, in the way that you did. Thank you for stirring my ancestral memory as you did, thank you for fighting as you did, thank you for the revolution. We will continue on where you left off.

In my blood there is music, art, magic, power, grief and an infinite amount of love. And god damn it one day I will be in my 90’s telling my great grandchildren all the stories I have been fated to collect. Surrounded by the living, and surrounded by my dead.

This I promise you.


Being Human and Mental Illness – Pt 1


This was first written inspired by Self Harm Awareness day. In the spirit of taking some of my greatest wounds and transmuting them into my greatest gifts. This is my consistent practice, and my ever pushed edge.

TW: Self Harm, Depression, Mental Illness etc

#SelfHarmAwarenessDay – seems kind of trite doesn’t it? But I would put forth a wager that the part of me that believes this triteness, is also the part of me that doesn’t like to talk about these things. Not in regards to myself at least.

Self harm, what a vastly misunderstood subject. I’ve been exploring through my thoughts on the experiences and pain that many of us share – yet seem to continue thinking are completely individual to each other. I’ve come to understand we cling to individualizing pain because we attach ourselves to it, see it as what defines us.
“I am not in pain, I am pain, and as such I am in control.”

I’ve been sifting through on my own ordeals of doing that exact same thing – my previous refusals to release the sovereignty of trauma. As if it was the only that actually made me special.
So if not the individual, where does it come from? Oh gosh thats a pandoras box of a question. Let’s open it just a crack.

The disregard and nonchalance that our society scoffs upon those openly experiencing loneliness, depression and acts of self-harm is abhorrent. The act of pushing away our psychologically injured is an obvious banishing of a bigger cultural mirror, one most would rather not accept. We all feel this ache, some just feel it louder, some feel it for those who can’t. Often it’s those who can’t bring themselves to feel their ache that offer the most apathy around the subject of “mental illness” and self harm.
Self Harm is much more than a cry for help or attention – it’s a deep festering cultural wound that touches us all. Perhaps thats why many are so reluctant to talk about it without triggering an influx of medicinal adhesives and pillow talk of “Shhh it’ll all be okay”.
What has befallen a peoples of whom it has come to this level of toxic concealment?

Let me make something very clear, not all people who inflict self harm upon themselves are suicidal. More often than not they aren’t seeking death; they are seeking release, punishment, and sometimes even sanctification. This isn’t always true, but often it is. Many people who practice self harm feel so fucking much, and they have no idea where to put those feelings – so they bleed them out.

Another note: self harm is a huge umbrella statement, most people think of solely cutting/burning/etc. Self harm is exactly that, an act of escapism that is hurtful to the self. This could be, alcohol/drugs, workaholism, eating disorders, bad relationships, etc. It all comes down to escape, punishment, distraction, pain.

After copious years of self harms prominence in our western world, I see it now as learned behaviour. Passed down through generations. It’s very much developed in to genetic and environmental trauma.This is far too big to be swept under the rug of demanded and addictive positive thought. Addiction to positive thought can too be a form of self harming escapism. Isn’t that a twist?

It’s not a coincidence that in a culture devoid of elders, initiation rites and village that 1 in 12 of youth teeter towards suicidal thoughts and acts of self harm…. of which generally starts around puberty. It isn’t a coincidence that those the least valued in our culture are the most prone to suicide, those two being teens and the elderly.

We all ache. Some of us wear it on the outside, some of us hide it. Hoping to the powers that be

“Please don’t let them find out I am broken, please don’t let them leave me”

That’s the core of it all really, feeling broken, fearing being alone, feeling so fucking much, all of the time. As if feeling made us broken.

This isn’t some ambiguous story I’m speaking about, this is my story.

For over 15 years, starting at age 12 I consciously self harmed. Even today only the brave ask me where all my scars came from, most just look away uncomfortable in their quiet curiosity. And those are just the scars on the outside.
Some call me brave, for speaking of these things. Yet I have barely mentioned anything of my personal story, and at this point this is all I will mention of it. Brave, maybe, tired of seeing my friends suffer? Definitely.
I see when the people who suffer speak up. They are often met with dehumanization, condescending coddling and made to feel like an infectious pariah, like infants, or burdens. The majority at large do not want to be reminded of their own shadow, their perceived life failures, and even more so want nothing to do with that of which reminds them of their mortality; especially death. Our culture is inherently deathphobic. Funny thing considering one way or another it is absolutely going to happen to us all. You would think we would have gotten used to it by now.
I made it out of the deepest depths, mostly. Many of my peers are dead now, thats the damn truth of the matter. Many did not make it out, and even more will not. Something has to change – like now, yesterday even. You know it, I know it, and it’s doable; but not in conjunction with the continuous ignorant acts of peremptory blind-sightedness.
Our shadow is screaming to be acknowledged and then respectfully tended to.

We are all here together floating in space, hurting, loving, feeling, longing and creating – If we want to heal ourselves individually it’s time we start to comprehend what it means to truly heal as a collective first. What would it mean to support each other, regardless of the fearfulness that surrounds us, regardless of the mirrors that it provides.
We need to heal this together. No more heroes, no more villians, just humans doing the hard work as a collective.

As a life long advocate of extreme independence and “leave me the fuck alone I can handle my shit” syndrome this is a damn hard thing for me to say

I was wrong, this can not be done alone, I cannot do this alone. No one can, and no one should feel they should have to.

Ponderings from the essential shadows of Humanity

To be continued….

the heavy hearted ache


Today I write with a heavy heart, as the internet has reminded me (right on schedule) that the world is really fucked up – and in a plethora of ways.

Our world, our us, our humanity. What does that word even mean? Humanity.

I have grounded myself into a place where I will not let the narcissistic self loathing of our times consume me, I will not let it convince me I am so tiny that I cannot make a difference; that I should just simmer in apathetic and easy complacency.
More and more I am coming to realize that what is “easy” is not simple, and what is simple is far from easy.

But it hurts so much, and somedays I yearn to feel that apathy, I crave to understand the languish places of which so many of us have landed. The state of being that allows people to live each day in a place where heartache has been abandoned.
Because damn this pang is raw, like a thousand indignant marchers grabbing my at throat, despite the lack of recollection of why they had began marching to begin with. Like the tainted oxygen surrounding us leaving my breath short, my own womb mirrors that of our Earth’s – rumbling, twisting and lurching with sediment.
The pang is raw with consumption; a woman trespassed and sold, a pig tagged and bled, water bottled and resold. As if the culprit could see any difference between the three.
Eat. eat. eat.

We live in a time where eye contact is shunned, connection to our adversaries, our lovers, our food. Shunned. The intimate courtship of love, sex and death – a fading art. A sin even.
For years we arrive and depart from inside each other, thrusting in and out. Flesh against flesh, in a desperate reach towards feeling anything at all. Uncontemplative copulation, contact without contact. Climax without Orgasm.

I see anguish, hatred, war, and poison. I see suffering, in a world that advocates killing but refuses to acknowledge that death exists as anything but an affliction. I see all that is natural, all that is us, being crucified and resurrected, wrapped in plastic and artificially manufactured by emaciated milky eyed children younger than my own.
And then sold back to us; lacquered, sterilized. For our safety.

That blasted blanket statement of a word, Safety. I do not feel safe in this world, and I would be brazen in assuming that neither do you. Yet I harbour such a huge fucking adoration for this little blue marble, despite that ever-present same ache threatens to consume me. When I saturated in it’s darkness I cannot help but imagine and skirt on understanding the actions of political self immolation – because this fire under my skin threatens to ignite. The fire of passion, what a fearsome tool to behold.
I am angry, and I am scared, I am in pain but more so than anything I still am so damn in that love. With you, with all of this, or rather what all of this could be; and if I could I would turn it off, but that didn’t work before and it certainly wouldn’t work now. A tidal rush of intensity breaking down the makeshift dam of indifference. Wild hearts do not take well to being confined.

So I cannot go on, yet I continue on because anything else would be a lie – tiresome and meager. I am broke but not broken, I am female bodied but not weak, I am invisible in the eyes of the government but prominent in the eyes of my peers, and this pushes me to go on, even though by all means of logic I cannot.
Logic, safety, ache. These are all subjective. And every day for the past week the eagles have been circling my house, a bat sputtered around my home in graceful disarray, and a finch died quietly in my hands. I watched my daughter sing joyfully on stage, my house later this evening will be filled with the laughter of like-minded loved ones – loved ones that also ache, that also cannot go on – but will anyhow.
As long as I can live in a world with eagles, bats, singing and like-minded hearts I will have love.
This is not the nonchalant white picket fence do nothing as the world burns type of love, nor is it the violent extremist rubber bullets and homemade bombs type of love. It’s a love that doesn’t exist in-between them, but in-fact beyond them, not despite them but because of them.

In response to the times we are in, something beautiful and furious has arisen. Something in you and I that may stand to redefine revolution as a whole.
So I have love, and it tends to the colossal loneliness, the crippling doubt, and the fear of that lingering encompassing ache.
This love whispers to me

“You ache? Good, you are fortunate for the reminder of the state of things. That that ache and make it your power, take that power and make it your gift”
-but damn, some days; somedays are harder than others.

So what is Humanity? Some would say adolescent, destructive, tantrum prone, regressive by force. Call me radical, foolish or idealistic but instead I -in the spirit of my “Post-Jadedness”- choose to ask “what it could be?’ and to see what it IS in smaller circles – That is what utterly enchants me and keeps me going on and on and on.
It is the beauty. That of which we are collectively and individually capable of – And to be in service to beauty’s progress is a damn fine place to be; ache and all.


art credit:


The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –
sometimes they still wake me;
arousing the warmest grief – an anamnesis that lives in my bones .
A bittersweet remembrance,
fostered by curious wondering as I wander on
– Faint I still feel a pulse. Still hear it’s beckoning.

She is an astroid – humming a lonely hymn

These nights I wake
Naked against the rocks – water begets air
ten tongues could not speak my reflection
a hundred hearts could not heal
that which I choose to keep mangled
Hell; perhaps it’s penance
perhaps it’s something else

Like smoke, she says I’m like smoke

and in these nights i wake wet
I thought of her a thousand times – still a name alludes me
breaching with subtly like the rising moon
laced with a silhouette
breaking bread with ghosts; rapacious and abandoned
and breaking silence with dissertation and prose-
-all for her

unknown, unsought, untouchable

Where have the maidens gone?
The mothers scorned and the crones forgotten.
Where is the Wild feminine? Kind and fierce –
Her seductive primal howl spreading herself open
– daring you come inside
Eyes sharp – she tears back with teeth and nail
the decaying meat that binds her
smiling with repletion.

She remembers.

they sought to save the world to take it somewhere safe,
but only succeed in leaving themselves behind
We are thoughts on tongue-tips now; and I terminate the words that tend
for what better
than to die a little death on tongues tip?
My cup over flows with a bittersweet memory;
easing the passing
of hungry ghosts that were never
meant for loving

The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –
sometimes they still wake me

– AppleCat
Art Credit:

Contemplating New Years Resolutions;

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First one that comes to mind; during the aftermath of global strife and mass spread fear and shame – I let this utterly encompass me, it surrounds my every thought.
My resolution becomes clear as day; the exact thing that holds me back – stop beating yourself up for not being the change quick enough, stop beating yourself up for not being able to help everyone; stop looking at your achievements as “Good, but not good enough”

Tough self love is a necessary skill, but over time and with excessive use at some point it becomes an abusive relationship. I note with humility over this contemplation that I often boarder-line that type of contumelious connection with myself.

Why should anyone accept behaviour from one’s self towards themselves that they wouldn’t accept from other people?
When Catastrophe inflicts it’s detonation on the world I am far too quick to take it in to my body – nauseous and aching to feel in full it’s harrowing grief – and I am often foolish enough to try and feel it out alone; almost as if I was paying penance. Along with callously pushing away whatever person is altruistic enough to offer me solace. Why? Because I have convinced myself I am not worth it.

In these instances I am filled with a disheartened “What’s the point” mentality, one of which eats away at my inspiration and I am not accustomed to digesting with skillfulness. I see little lives change at some of the work that I do; they express with humbling adoration the effect I have had, but the work never gets easier – in fact it gets further strenuous: a dream that so much relies on – still homeless, still surrounded with such uncertainty.
And what of the rest of the world?

How do the little lives go on to prevent bombings, shootings, hatred – how do the little lives -now less laden with shame and guilt- these little dancers how do they stop the killing? How is it that I can put my full everything in to the world – and still have the cries of anguish echo in my ears from miles away, years away – I still feel them, and it hurts. God damn it hurts.

and then I become angry, and sorrowful, and I take it out on myself because it
“Wasn’t Enough”

But I need to stop that, if even for the sake of those who care for me, they should not have to watch me squirm when I perform emotional self flagellation. It’s not fair to them, or to me.
I need to remember that yes on the inside I am a fierce kind DragonKitty, but on the outside no matter how big or small I feel internally- I am a wee Human Girl, and I am doing everything I can; which is (I can say now because I am not at this moment swimming in narcissistic self loathing) a-fucking-lot.

The hell with Gregorian New Years; my resolution can start today.
Mya, take it easy on yourself.

Death and Love


Thoughts on Death and Love – and how they are not, nor should they ever be mutually exclusive. To truly love something or one deeply, is to love it’s end as well – in whatever form that takes.

Unfurling memories of friends, of kin – those passed on but far from gone. These instances by logic should get easier, but out of respect and authentic heart connection I am unsure if that is the case.

This past weekend Beloved fellow Scholar of the Orphan Wisdom school and friend of mine passed away; Anne Cressy of whom made me feel more at home in a strange place than I ever got to express to her; a respect and acceptance for an older Woman I have -unfortunately for me- not often felt. Along with her on the day previous my dearest Partner Ian and his brave and honourable family laid to rest their esteemed Grandfather Ian Mackenzie I. Guided by song, story and love -the way one should be- he slipped away in the home he had built – along with the clan he and his wife Agatha had cultivated first from across the Atlantic, and back to Canada again.

Death is the dance partner of whom has cradled and cavorted with us since our birth, the shadow of which is there even in our most alone times – the friend of whom will never abandon us despite our outright fear laden disdain for them. Such is their roll.

I want to believe that when those whom are closest to me – and even me – promenade comes to a halt I will be ready; that I will call forward my knowledge of ancestors and the unseen, that I will hold a space for them at the table of my days – and that I too will be seated at said table on the time of my departure. That I will live on in story; the stories of which I have become so fond of in my time – the stories I have come to realize we are compiled of. Stories are what make us Alive, even in Death.

But – I am scared, and a little angry.

These are so called natural feelings but how much if this natural affliction is instilled by our death phobic culture? How much poverty have we been subject to without even knowing it? There is a Rebel that rumbles inside of me and She teeters often on the fence of saving the world or abandoning its ridiculous ways all together – but I couldn’t do that, I love it far too much; no matter how much it hurts I have to keep dancing.

I have had a handful Friends and Family pass away in the past, and I have responded apathetically and passed by the chance to fully grieve them.
This is my shame, a regret that is laced with the wretched certainty of “too late”.
With them in mind and heart I vow to those of whom that are still tangible – still within my flesh’s reach- and to those of whom that are no longer able to feel the warmth my body conjures; that I will never quell that human instinct to mourn your loss out of cowardice surrounding the stigma of being “weak”, or being overtly obtrusive with my tears and what they are tied to.

Is is our birth right to be gifted the grief we’ve earned through out our time together – once passed these cries of heartache are the wind that pushes our sails to the next venture, and the breadcrumbs that bring us back to those we hold deeply in our hearts. This is our obligation and noble place as the living, to feed and guide our dead as they have fed will continue to guide us – as they wait readily -reminded of who we are by our remembering – to take our hand in to theirs whenever it is our time to join them.

Sometimes it seems too far brief of a time, or sometimes our bodies are suspended in space by machines keeping us here on borrowed time far longer than we should be. Never the less we all get what everyone else gets.
We all get a lifetime.

Allegiance to the Undergrowth of Amour

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In the time that I have been living I have learned to weave my heart like spiders silk
a spinster sisters bestowal
All a tangle in the limbs of my lovers, a menacing knotted mess
of unabashed affection – Eros’s ever daunting thicket
this is the adoration of a wild one

That mess is my kinship and it’s potency my medium
this is my mother tongue. and to her I pledge fidelity
all at the hand of love

Such is the song of the journey, the longhawl incarnate,
wolves and other beast’s teeth, flesh and bone torn piece from piece
and renewed, again and again
to feed and be fed
satiating the hungry, the old ones half forgotten
We are sacred yes, but we thankfully are not unfuckable
so eat
– to then -as we do- become anew
all at the hand of love

So spill your simmered sorrow,
this grace is the bittersweet glaze of liquid death
a palatable pang dancing upon our tongues, unique unto it’s own
nourishing our bodies
if we let it.

Admitting we’ve not yet learned to chew, only offered a cesarian duplication of what “should be” –
-But then there is what “Could be”
We can choose, to be born in to the passage of becoming within the natural and birthrighten throws of heartache,
all at the hand of love

But what is this unbidden tenderness of which I banter on?
And how to attain the affections of a wild born woman-
-Love my end with you, whenever it may occur
Love me as if your spite in my passing will not override your amorous remembrance
Love me by your willingness to let me go-
Set no confinements or trappings for our interlaced Wildness-
for they are older and wiser than us both-
Heed this call, for the trueness of love-
and then I am yours
– as much as any wild thing could be

This path is not linear, nor will you find yourself unscathen
but there are certain things that lay resolute in my bones

from the day your heart began to beat, to the day it stops
from the time of beginning to the time of completion
to the moment the underside of your weary seastorm eyes become your last backdrop
this melange of experiencing, I will hold it all
all at the hand of love

So be this as it may, a continuing time of fluctuating elation, grief, understanding and deep relation – with everything
This love one day will read like a chapter closed, and thus a crippling wrinkle in a cycle that whispers hauntingly with utter devotion

“We will not go on without you”

perhaps perhaps perhaps


Perhaps if we learned to see the transitions in our lives for what they truly are – to acknowledge, honour and respect the little deaths we face through out the years, months, and even on a daily basis – perhaps then the cultural phobia surrounding the “one death” (the big one) would gradually fade.

Perhaps if we stopped pretending these grievances didn’t happen or worse didn’t matter, we could release the terror rooted in being forgotten – in disappearance. We could connect our end, with all the little ends we’ve learned from; we could feel like had mattered.

Perhaps then we would understand, that the ripple we started would continue to expand long after we became one with the ocean of time.
Perhaps these little deaths serve to show us that they/we feed new life; they teach us, with or without our conscious knowing of it.

Perhaps if we listen we would hear that our final gift can be the greatest one; and each little life we’ve felt come and go has too been a gift to the source.

Little or large, tangible or abstract; all of these lives have significance – their beginning and their end.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…..



I dreamed of an event;
filled with a melange of folk, old and young;
Sometimes it was a dance party, otherwise a theatric performance; sometimes it was just delightful and cultured chaos.
The night was coming to an end and he approached me;

“What is it you fear child?”

The older man with the crows feet and thick viking accent asked.
I hesitated

“I fear a life wasted and unremembered, and a death equally so. I fear failure; and the foreboding shadow of “too late”

He nodded.

The whole event he had been very jovial; like a favourite -perhaps often moderately drunk- uncle. Sometimes I could barely tell if he was human or some other type of playful animal. Now though there was nothing but certitude and wisdom in his intense stare; one that beamed with a sobriety I had never even fathomed.

He gently took my index finger and concentrated intently on it; reading it.
He rested in the place between words for what seemed like an eternity and then abruptly let out a heavy breathe.

‘Your life’s, and then your death’s gifts will come and go like the tides; but if it is a death without memorial you dread; you have nothing to fear.
Your debts to this world will be paid in full; you are now and will be loved until you are forgotten.
Death – when it is time – will be your last gift to this world.”

With tears I squeeze his hand in gratitude; hard. Swiftly then I wake up; with words in mind and pillow slightly dampened.

Death Without Dying

Death follows me today, not my own but it’s essence.

It lingers in the shattered and lost creatures, uprooted archaic bones, white crosses strone across the black rock laden beach.

All the while I watch the world pass by, ignoring -forcibly, like children with fingers in their ears- We are the victims of a deathless life; burdened by the shock of it’s impending arrival.

Our kindred souls remain unmourned, our jobs as the living unfulfilled. Half moulded we lay stagnant in our infancy.
try as I have I was never granted that that handicap. The world gifts me to death, as I will someday gift death back to it.

As it should be, remembered, grieved and respected.

This hurts.