When it is (not) amicable …

No one tells you about the excruciating details of separation. Nor the emotional or mental strain that you have to deal with.

Sure, people talk about anger, angst and sadness. Far too often it is wrapped in the package of an acrimonious split – an event or action that like a grenade in a lake creates a massive splash and then ripples out to each bank.

No one talks about a split that is made when it’s obvious that the relationship is no longer working.

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Silver is not the colour of the lining (of my fuck-tonne of baggage)

Seriously,

Ain’t nobody got time for that

You should probably do something better with your time.


NB; This is part of my CB therapy. It’s one-sided, it’s biased, it’s self-pitying, it’s my mind and nothing else. If you happen to know me and happen to know anyone I allude to, then take it with a horse bag of salt. There’s so much left unsaid and so much probably overstated. That’s the nature of externalisation based writing therapy.

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embrace the complexity

We live in times awash in simplicity and simple-minded thinking.

But life is not simple. Nor are the challenges and issues facing us all, yet our culture seems to thirst for the false dichotomy of simple answers to complex problems.

We seek the simple. We want simplicity.

Thus, I feel that everyone misses the point.

Simplicity isn’t and nor should it be the goal.

Complexity, whether we like it or not, is the point.

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Forty Two

Maybe because I am making my way towards this birthday milestone, the number has been on my mind recently. 

Way before I ever read the hitch hikers guide to the galaxy, the number held a mystical enchantment over my psyche.

In my formative years I was plagued by recurring nightmares. Whilst most could be diagnosed or rationalised as elements of an unfortunate childhood filled with emotional and physical violence, there was one that continued on throughout adolescents and well into my thirties.

In this dream, I am forty two years old and making my way through the laneways of Melbourne with friends who I cannot ever identify outside the dream but I perceive within it to be close. We are jovial and making our way between venues when I was hear something from inside one of the alleyways that makes me think someone needs help.

So I leave the group and make my way down the alley to see who needs assistance and *flash* my world goes white and with a sensation that my life has ceased I usually awake with a start.

Why this nightmare? Why that age? I have never been able to interpret it. I still have the nightmare, though thankfully less often than my younger years. So vivid are the images that I can practically replay it at will, but no matter my attempts to alter scenario with lucid dreaming, cognitive behavioural techniques and meditation have been fruitless.

I am no longer the naive and superstitious youth I once was, but I have wondered if it is a premonition of apropos shearing my thread on the wheel of fate.

It still triggers my thanatophobia every time I recall it, nonetheless.

 

“Is it just me, or are you shrinking?”

I was asked that on another site and it’s funny how a simple remark can bring up a lot of emotional baggage.

Yes, in short, I am losing weight, and thank you for noticing.

Believe it or not, that is a very hard sentence to say.

So, there is background:

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