12-2-2022: Day 247
There was a blockage. The water was whirlpooling slowly down the kitchen plughole. It could be in the U-bend, could be in the pipe work, could be backed up to the main sewerage drain out the backyard. Either way, it was a migraine-inducing headache I could do without. It was causing my cortisol stress levels to rise and my brain to freeze, in the wake of a thick hungover funk of a Saturday morning. Watching my blurry mirrored reflection in the stagnant water, spiralling down the sink, it left me wondering…
…I was contemplating a blockage elsewhere, a deeper sense of some emotional constipation backed up in the mind, heart, or soul. I felt the need to shake things up, raise the vibrations and energy levels, but the tank was running on empty. The lingering overtones of the ongoing battle to quit these powerful brain drugs hung heavy like an albatross round my neck. So, back to the task in hand, I rummaged through the sink cupboard for a bottle of chemical sink unblocker.
12-2-2022: Day 247
Dylan’s ‘Hard Rain’ was falling on the stereo as the message came through on the socials – from a distant female relative not heard from for aeons. She was touching base, reaching out, and after a bit of light amiable chat, dropped in with a mention of a community block grant she had recently tapped for extra financial support. If interested she could send a web link, a hook-up to the funding application. And as the pound signs blinded my illuminated eyes, I idly clicked on the messenger link.
Up popped a social media page for Agent Williams, an old monied white man with shock white hair, who dressed like a freemason and was clutching a framed government endorsed certificate. As he began asking for personal data, the penny dropped, and I realised why curiosity sometimes kills the black feline of the species.
I was caught in the spider’s cobweb of a criminal scam, a dark web phishing expedition, and a black hat hack. So, I pulled myself out of the digital rabbit hole, implemented a security lockdown of my own, and deleted all traces of my identity.
This was the second time in a fortnight being fingered by Universal forces.
15-2-2022: Day 250
I was back on the couch, drifting in and out of the Dreamtime, with a full-blown fever. My lungs were feeling tight, and breathing was restricted. There was a subconscious fear rattling round my brain this was the long shadow of the Virus.
My neural networks were firing on all cylinders, playing a speedy game of chess with the permutations of this conclusion. Could this Virus somehow have resurfaced from the depths of my inner core being, like a sleeping leviathan, waking and revealing its ugly contorted face.
As I floated and bobbed on the ebbing tide, just off the land of nod, I was reminded of the thirteen years I would sleep for England. It was my only escape from the nightmare scenario of a life spent battling in the Trenches. Time slept on the couch was time not spent picking the emotional scars of trauma, which cover my body from head to toe.
And I wondered at the new shores my oceanic voyage of healing would carry me to.