Getting through 

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be able spend money without thinking about the budget, the impact of my choice on kids working in factories and the contribution to the world’s waste and global warming problems.

I look at people who can afford to sit in business class and wonder if it is from their own volition or born privilege. I wonder if they think as much about their choices or position as much as I do.

I hope that my family appreciates what they have and the consequences of our privilege in bountiful food, ability to travel overseas, constant love and the warmth of a home.of course as well know from recent times, these are not guaranteed.

Everything seems on an edge at the moment. I am still not able to sleep, taking me hours of tossing and turning or writing before I succumb to taking more medication, either the Zapremel or Lorazepam or both if it’s particularly bad and I’m worried about a hangover the next day. I’m still writing, almost finished one ebook in less than a fortnight and many more drafted. The words flow so easily like I am the smooth moos-covered rocks with a bubbly, gurgling creek running over me, caressing my hard layer, sharp edges and reaching into the deepest crevices. 

But there is a dark part of me that is hiding, waiting, running his hands together because he knows what we all know. That what goes up must come crashing down, ten fold, and destroy my foundations, crack the mask that helps me blend into society, work and friends so that you look through me as we pass in the street. This facade of normally can break, it is currently precarious. Not just wobbly, but more like a plane flying with the pilot asleep and in its place, a large black and jaggard rock. Ready to smash, to cause havoc and yet let nothing touch it’s impervious surface.

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