Blogging

Blogging is it? What's it all about? A place I can rant and rave, let idiots, jokers and tokers read some weird, straight, bizarre or sublime thoughts? Well if that is blogging, bring it on.

In the beginning

I suppose it all began in a small bedroom with the motherly cries of pain at the expulsion of a new life into the world, the panic stricken faces of onlookers reflecting the helplessness of both mother and new born child. I cried with my first in take of breath, so I’m told.

Apparently I was an introspective baby, with my mother placing a mirror over my mouth to check that I was still breathing, I was so quiet. Why I was made this way I will never know, but that is how it was and still is.

My earliest memory, ironically, was sitting in a pub garden during a wedding reception, it was sunny and the grass was soft and full and I was at the height of my imagination playing with a toy fire engine a distant relative had bought me that day. Never again have I seen that toy in my memories and I miss that fire engine, because it was my first joy. I remember vividly the warmth of the sun and the peace I felt surrounded by the feeling of singular anonymity, projected by my wonderings of how this bright red fire engine was in my hand as I played until the memory faded.

As I write this I search the elusive past for more detail and this single event has stuck in my head, may be it was the generosity of the unknown person that has stayed with me throughout my life, that has made me the man I am today.

Thus starts my journey.

As I lay on the floor of a family gathering, and these gatherings were large, I gasped for breath as a well meaning relative rib tickled me until I could no longer laugh, my lungs bursting and yet they still didn’t let up. This harrowing experience can be seen in many people today and I don’t reveal this event seeking anything other than a comraderie with all the other tickled adults of childhood in the world. It is my belief that a fundamental realisation occurred in me at this point in my life, a change that was irreversible, it was called “leave me alone you bastards!"

Atrius the dreamlord

His life seemed obsolete. Every direction he turned he saw a meaningless gathering of thoughts driving through his mind and each one empty of meaning. Or did the meaning elude him. Sitting with his small vial of ethikane, Atrius put to rest his mind for the time being. The search should be so simple, the worlds he visited and people he had met and how he travelled there were beyond the understanding, mysticism and even the unknown, of the land that he stayed in and loved for its simplicity.

It burnt his brain to realise in a moment that the script he wrote on his arms gave the answers he looked for

The writer

Writing is an instinct, that when performed publicly, bemuses, entices, and draws curiosity as to the machinations of the authors mind. A secretive hobby and disturbing to those who witness it.
Are the insights to a writers mind so intriguing as to bare humility, disgust from those that surround them. The writer may be inert, yet their minds are flying through a thousand adventures beyond the reality surrounding them. Complacent in being who they are, for those that ignore the writer, sadness awaits, as truly their soul is as empty as a blank book, and to be true, a blank book is all they'll ever be.