Objectively optional opinions.

An investigation into the meeting of minds, my minds.

Small Talk

How was your day?’

Don’t ask me that, don’t ask me about things you don’t care about. 

Ask me how I feel, ask me what I’ve been thinking, ask me anything but ‘How was your day?’.

Did you have a nice summer?’

Don’t ask me that, don’t ask me about things you don’t care about.

Ask me about my dreams, ask me about my regrets, ask me anything but ‘Did you have a nice summer?’

Don’t ask me and I won’t ask you.


The false assassin

Lingering, it permeates the room of dead and dying. Hospital smell.

Invisible to the sense, only an echo treads softly on the path to Hades’ room. Dripping needle.

Turn back it says, save yourself, save your tears for someone else. Yellow Bandage.

Melancholic arrows make their way to you, pierce your side and lift you up. Oozing wound.

But they are false, false as the assassin who loosed them on your weeping frame. Masked assistant.

He’s dead, they whisper, we lied, they laugh, we are the false assassin. Painkillers.

They call us hope



I am a scalpel, the pain I cause is delayed like the monday morning trains.

You beg me to hold you in the grasp of mortality and yet before you realise it, you are bled.

I am the shard of glass you don’t see, walking happily to the beach of your dreams, I am there to ruin your day.

You love me but I will bleed you dry, to leave you an empty husk on the battlefield of love.

I am a scalpel, when I slice, your emotions run forth like the aorta’s rushing red river.

Post-dream Blues

I stared at the bus, but no face was visible. I knew it was there, behind the tinted panes, a one way mirror.

I imagined I could see those eyes, those atlas spheres of green and blue, the map of your mind projecting wonder onto mine.

I felt like Gatsby looking out across the bay, but I can’t see the green light. All I have is a memory now.

Where we parted there lies a scar, not on my skin but on my soul, it feels adrift, ripped in two. I want it back.

My world is now Monochrome, colour emanating only from those things that remind me of our time, a book, a smell, a laugh.

Now I wait, tracing the map of your skin in my mind, a map that is all at once so hard to read and yet I never err from the path.

It was a dream, turned into a nightmare when I awoke, to find you gone. 


A smile.

A smile has the power, to elate, to maim, to crush.

A smile has the power to burn, to save, to blush.

A smile bows only to words, the latter an eagle, the former a dove.

But my smile for you is pure, no harm, no malice, only love.

Today and it rains

There lies a happiness in this photo that I cannot express in words.

It is so pure and clean.


I am in my place,

the one in which I am meant to be.

I am in my place,

I have been placed to do what I am meant to do.

I am in a place,

that holds a thousand possibilities that were meant for me.

I am in a place,

from which which the sky is ever blue.

Placement. The way the world works. 


My place is my place.


I have realised that it takes only one brief encounter with beauty and I am smitten with a rose-tinted world.

When I begin my day with the sunrise, the day that follows is lit as bright as my bedroom in a golden sheen of wonder.

When I meet a beautiful mind, they echo in my head like the sweetest birdsong, inspiring me, leading me onward.

When I see a beautiful face, all those countenances I meet from there after seem to me glowing.


When I witness beauty I feel beautiful, in heart and mind and all my Being. 

Like a yawn that spreads through the room.


Embrace it, for if a day in which we experienced no beauty arrived, we would wish for all those small moments back once again.


Writer’s block

I do not believe in writer’s block. I believe that there are times when you are meant to write and times when you are not.

Those that speak of writers block are not in the wrong place for writing or creating or brainstorming,

but that they are in the place they are meant to be. 

When one accepts that there points in one’s life that do not allow for active creativity, it becomes easier to write when the time comes.

It is a game of patience, in which some people have no need for it, and in which some people must learn.



Do you ever wonder
What we might have done?

I sometimes sit and wonder
And think about the sum,

Of the adventures missed
And the crosses we would share,

I’ve missed the chance now
To show you love and care.

Now today I sit and ponder
Regrets they cloud my mind,

But regretting gets us nowhere
And I find my mind Is blind,

To the future that awaits me
To the life I’ve yet to live,

When all we have are memories
There’s no time for what ifs.