20-5-2022: Day 345
The growing pains of revisiting the old demons of trauma began on the familiar, battered casting couch in the mid-afternoon shadows of the lounge. I was crying a river. Howling a primal scream unheard to human ears. As the clouds eclipsed the sun and the murky black mists descended.
The kids were due back in half an hour, strolling through the front door, back from grafting at the academic coal face of the fully comp school on the Southwick borders.
The demons were baying for blood. And a little bloodletting helps the medicine go down. Or so I reminded myself – in the latter stages of going cold turkey from hardcore Big Pharma ghetto drugs – that there would be better days on the horizon.
As I wrestled in the shadows, with flashbacks of the thirteen years in the Trenches, the thought occurred the only way to heal from this trauma was to peel back its layers like an onion. And, inevitably, there would be tears.
21-5-2022: Day 346
In the cold funereal dead of night, the red flashing LED on the landline warned of 3.23 AM. I turned on my handheld brain device and marvelled at the screen saver of my first red rose of Springtime.
It was time for divesting of my nightmare from civilian street, as the stalking insomnia of chemical withdrawal lingered in the dark shadows of the lounge.
The nightmare had shook-one from sleep, into a dark waking world of paralysis, and the only way for a little peace and posterity was to burn the demonic content onto my phones hard drive.
The nightmare was of a basement operating room full of devil-worshipping surgeons holding aloft razor-sharp scalpels of dismemberment, in the deep corporate pockets of transhumanism agendas.
And, when the Sandman switched up the scene, I found my soul lost, bobbing in the swelling Australian ocean, waiting in shark-infested waters, for the feeding frenzy in the final countdown of this mortal coil.
23-5-2022: Day 348
The Shungite bracelet, wrote for luck on my right wrist, shattered after a particularly savage high five with my first-born son. Our team of hard knock scousers had just stretched into a fragile lead, on this, the final day of another cliff hanger of a title decider, in this Island’s premier football match.
The Russian meteorite stones sprayed across the faded wooden floorboards, in a moment of ecstasy that would later turn to agony, as I downed the umpteenth beer on a sunny afternoon in the sleepy port town of Shoreham-by-Sea.
My neighbour, a fellow hard knock supporter from the wrong sides of the tracks was banging on our dividing wall in frustration – just as inmates would show solidarity in the pen – in the emotional fire and fury of the psychological battle taking place up North.
And somewhere in an alternative universe, the Gallagher brothers cosmically high fived their team to another title fuelled on guts, greed, and greasy oil money.