We tell stories to ourselves to make sense of our lives. The irony is those tales are a work of fiction. Hidden meanings behind our most baffling behaviour? More like moulding putty a sphere to fit the shape of a stretched narrative for any casual viewer to accept. My own…

A steady rhythm before “it”. A little extra care needed to return there after “it”. The then and now? A gentle pace of a friendship nurturing growth in fits and bursts. Always supportive platonic. Meant to be so. Arms-length enriching maturity. Learning from and inspiring each other. Feels good…

Reminded of naturalist Thoreau more often than not at each year’s end. As much as the many moments of attempts at reflection scattered within every year. Follow-through on life course alteration contemplation should not be a once-a-year will. Nor should actual change. Will I have lived at all? The question beyond…

Near-death experiences can change you, sort of. Resuming transmission after being in that place of sleep without dreams, the peaceful sleep of a thousand sleeps, surrounded by black. Nothingness. Revived after a heart stopped beating, with only the ghost of a dead friend standing at the foot of the bed, smiling…

Utopia — a good place. It is not a physical place. Spent a lifetime looking for it. Breath taken away by the beautiful places seen but there is more to it than melting into those spectacular spaces. It could be a mental place perhaps the space where the things that sowed the sadness no…

I think there is a cicada under my desk at work. It is ludicrous to believe a bug of this ilk could find its way into a tall building. Yet its sound is chirping with a certain rhythm, loudest at the start and end of each day. …

Spotted. Rare sighting and unexpected proximity to an urban gazelle in full flight. Magnificent nose and freckled skin eyes focused on the path ahead concentrating hard to navigate the dangerous terrain camouflage brightened by sunshine spotlighting synchronicity cantering lithe naked limbs. Perhaps too much exposure for this nature lover determined not to spook the wonderous skittish creature on its morning run.

As the week’s work pressure wears me down I dream of Pachelbel’s Canon, the music playing as a blind severed head sits in a pool of blood on the floor. It is alert enough to listen to a sermon. …

They talked about “letting the dust settle as they listened to hard rain on their roof”. Their subtle rejection hit their mark with missile precision. And with that strike a deluge from my bloody eyes the way a dam breaks after a downpouring of heavy rain. …