a cure for everything.

I could not it out. for a long time I would become obsessed with a particular mirical fruit food or activity to get me out of a slump, feel refreshed or help me with a problem. And it would work! It would work so very well that I would rush to the kitchen and pour my third bowl of beans, or glass or apple juice or whatever food I was swooning over. I would shop double or triple that week, making sure my shelves are full of that one particular item. And for a time I would live in bliss.

Then a few weeks later when I am getting stomach pains from drinking to much apple juice, and when to pee for the forth time today. That mirical power that the juice gave me to stay focused and on track, does not work. I remain low on energy, I can barely leave the couch. Have I built up a tolerance? This was always my line of thinking. or maybe I am missing something else in my diet.

I am healthy, fit. Why don’t I have the energy to do much else with my day? This had puzzled me for so long. Until…

Until I realized it was all in my head, 40% physical, 60% mental. without knowing, I was the one holding me back, taking away my energy. I had never said to myself that I could and that I can. So my mind assumed that I could not. This placebo effect I had placed on the food I eat, was something I had control over. And so, when I poured myself a glass of juice. I said to myself loud and clear.

“this juice will give me the energy I need for my day!”


Scene 1: Obstacle

Jay was still a youth, but his imaginative mind always got the better of him. Fired for daydreaming at work. Yelled at by his dominate father, who did not like the idea that he still had to support a family. Jays three sisters had all left home, have steady jobs, go out on weekends with friends. But jay struggled to follow in there footsteps. As jay was the creative time, big ambitions, head full of ideas but unsure where to start.

After being fired from his most recent job as a fry cook, jay sat on a park bench not wanting to go home. Staring at the tops of the trees where the sky comes to meet them. Touching like fingertips in a pool of water. Elegant. And once again jay found his mind drifting, there is no diagnosis for dreamer, no pill to take, its just there and it happens. And is happening way to often for jay at the present momement.

A cold wind sweeps in and two dark figures walk past, jays eyes go back to the trees, when bang. He feels his face hurt as he is thrown backwards onto the park bench, held down with something cold and matalic pressed aganst his cheek. “Don’t move” bight white eyes say to him in the swarm of movement under two silhouettes of people. He could not see anything but bright eyes fixed on him.

Hands pat around his waste and find his wallet. Jay can feel it leave his possestion as the small lump of fabric, bank cards and cash are removed from his pocket. And then they were gone.

Alone, and shaken, jay lay there in the cold staring up at the unmoving sky, a thousand dead stars, gleming bright, unable to help him. The breeze blew strong and cold, shakingly jay sat up. Hands on knees. Hands blue with cold, and shaking with fear.

Jay walked the three blocks home, looking around, seeing that no one was following him. The cold air slowing him down as he ran. To his house, going around back and making his way into his room, into his bed, and just shivering there.


counting backwards from 90

as I lay here, drawing my final breath,

the final hurdel fast approaching, I begin thinking of all the hurdels I have jumped, avioded and climbed under. but I do not want to die, I do not want to end here.

strapped to a ventalator, I make the consious decision to sit up in bed.

Nobody dies on there feet, I think

as the beeping and buzzing rings in my ears from all the machines around me,

they are keeping me alive, but hate when I am lively,

its not human to sit still, and while I still have breath within my lungs I want to live it.

nurses rush into the room and say “sir, relax, sir lay back”

but if I make the grave quicker I wouldn’t be counting my losses at this point in time,

I am sitting up, breathing heavily, fogging up my breathing mask,

I did it!, not much but I sat up all by myself,

one foot in the grave, and I can still move atleast half my body.


dating criteria

  1. slim, not athletic, but also not unhealthy.
  2. must be looking to date
  3. approachable, easy to converse with on any topic
  4. female
  5. does not bombard with words, talks and writes at a similar pace
  6. Not needy has there own life managed
  7. nice teeth
  8. Someone I would feel comfortable bringing home to my parents

whats on your list?

really pretty but dull

Dan had been single for at least six months on last count,

and was determined to get back into the game,

Slow and steady win the race, but dan wanted love now,

Dan would freeze up every time he was chatting to a potential mate,

So painstakingly dan wrote down every question he could think of,


only a greeting and a heap unpleasant questions came to mind,

why no love or excitment for these pretty pretty girls?

Dan felt small, but knew this was a frame of mind,

as Dan was great to be around in other circumstances,

So it became obviouse that it was himself that he would have to overcome.

success in the arts

my broken hand

I wake up and it is still in plaster, wrapped tightly like a glove,

I was going to draw and create all of this uni break,

writing hand, my drawing hand, my crafting hand,

shattered in four pieces,

I sit and look at in despair, how will I get anything done?

I get out of bed, put a shirt over my head, careful with my bulky hand through the arm hole,

sit down at the desk, looking at a blank sheet of paper,

cradling my bulky plaster hand, feeling the texture grazing my palm and fingertips,

I pick up a pen and let the ink seep into the paper, I move up and down the page,

getting a feel for the pen in my hand, seeing how steady my lines are,

a little shaky but I like the style, the innocent uneducated hand I have,

It feels like teaching a child to ride a bike,

And that is when the pen breaks,

I didn’t realize how hard I was grasping the pen, shatters,

plastic spikes penetrate my hand and pinky finger,

I feel the pain, but only stare in shock as ink and blood mix on the page.


writing my life

passion is when you lose track of time,

asking myself where did the day go with a smile,

maybe I am doing it, maybe I have yet to discover,

but as I venture I see only this love,

sending ripples throughout my day and life,

was I here 30 min or 3 hours?


about my dreams

I don’t remember my dreams, but the other day I did. I could vividly remember being in a forest and the intense and abstract events that followed. I was in a forest, the trees around me, the blues and greens in the creases of the trees. A lady yelling, standing tall, holding a sharp pair of scissors, a few other people stand nearby, the yelling continues, then she stabs herself and blood stains the lovely fabric of her dress… and then I wake up. For me I am trialing methods and ways to remember my dreams. I like the idea of dreaming and I am excited to give each of them a go. Fill the pages of my dream journal that is currently untouched. Let the adventures begin!