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Let all the jobs be finished
Let all the people be gone
Let all the phone calls be done

Give me only one sound
One sight
One purpose

Let the door be open
Let me wander
Let me take small steps

To a salty ocean
Or a mossy oak
Or a heathery moor

The suck of mud underfoot
The grab of a bramble at a sleeve
The pulse of steps and of a heart

Take away internal battles
Make it easy to go
Make existence my purpose

Let me be scorched by sun
Or bitten by wind
Or beaten by hail

Let sleep visit
Let mornings be welcome
And let nights be a reward

Let me be spiritual without a god
Without a church
Without a meaning

For it is the search for meaning
That leaves everything so meaningless
And my life without a purpose


Right now I feel the need to go to a special place I go to sometimes in order to survive.
It is a free place – and a very cheap place – in my head.
It is simple solitude with no outside contact.

It might seem like a dark, lonely, troubled place to an onlooker, but to me it is called peace; it is my long hot bath or my book on the beach or my trip to Mexico (only cheaper).
If I can’t get there I feel frantic – hunted almost, and trapped.

I don’t want to fight this feeling, and I don’t feel I need curing, rescuing or stopping from going there – simply going there in itself is the cure.
The deepest dark washes over my head like an inky tide and then it sucks softly away leaving me levelled like a beach freshened by the ocean.

Afterwards I can walk into the light again feeling soothed and rested.

But I need to go now, and I can’t.

I went for a walk with the dog earlier today and tried to put my feelings into words. But when I feel like this everything seems tangled and busy and thoughts are difficult to map out in a straightforward way. It’s as if thought processes are scrumpled up; it’s all there – there’s nothing new or bigger or different to cope with but it’s confused, messy.

I feel childish when I’m like this. Sulky, grumpy, at the mercy of others.

Perhaps I could write a childish poem, I thought – as it’s National Poetry Day.

So I plished through the wet fields, whilst Dylan ate cowshit and carried a cricket in his mouth (- so gently it survived!), and I typed a few words into my phone:

They are strange these days: of feeling like a child;
Neglecting the domestic and desiring to run wild.
Fighting against life.
Sulking because it’s raining.
“I haven’t eaten!” (Whose fault is that?)
I thrive on this complaining.

Perhaps a hug or an icecream?
An early night or a good scream?

I’m tangled and I’m messy
I’m sticky and I’m stressy
Turn down the lights, stroke my head.
Whisper “There, there” and put me to bed.

I don’t want this! or that! or the other!
Leave me alone – you’re too much bother!
But don’t say “Act your age!”, whatever you do
Because today I am barely more than two!

It’s such a selfish and guilt-ridden feeling, having what I have decided to call “A charmed strife”.
Life should and can be good – but part of that being good means giving my head time out on the naughty step. Otherwise I feel permanently unhappy.

I think standing in the mud and staring into puddles helped a bit today.

Bug in muddy puddle

Bug in Muddy Puddle, by Rachel, aged 2 and a lot

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