Weird 

Here's another one

So... not gonna lie. Found some ai music software online and started running poetry through it. My likes.

Eh. Calmed down a bit lol. Book is on, gimmie 4 weeks or so. Was self sabotaging all this time. Brains are weird.

On that note...

So is anxiety (couldn't help being a total dick, and that goes for anyone who knows an afflicted person too). So is depression. So is psychosis.

Burn a light in all your windows. I don't know the truth. I just spent a long time fixating on emotions, and had a broken, frustratee heart. There's always tomorrow though.

Ah k. Lol. See you at Glastonbury or whatever lol. Btw true sight is quite the adjustment

Ah fuck. You're OK. You've lived through this. And I need your help. My phone numbers in my password. That's what my playlist is getting at.

Time to start studying psychology

K. Need to get rid of that cunt first. The curse wait lol

I have no idea if this book is even my idea, 2bh. Will it do more harm than good? I'm pretty sure it will have the intended effect on some people. But if world medical establishments are unaware of the consequences for those individuals, it'll just sow chaos, and people will point the finger. Especially after these posts. It doesn't help that I can't do anything other than doubt this. Dismiss an ancient Aztec curse through a novel, and then prepare people to withstand angry African spirits long enough to get medical help?

What if there's no health care provision for those people? What about a global Abilify shortage? People might die. I can't do this.

Back to plan B. I'll write it, but it ain't for general consumption, not yet. Maybe not ever. I'm sorry the world is too fucked up for me to write about it.

Fuck I literally know nothing other than that this might be a thing, how to heal oneself... And what awaits. But what the fuck is it? Any friendly psychiatrists even half convinced by this? Does it make any sense to what we know about mental illness progression? Mysticism aside?

Ah fuck, it's no that daft is it? Besides I smoked a doober and my anti ps ain't fully active yet.

OK how about this. Touch my family, you wyrd fucker and I'll make you suffer torments like you cannot imagine. I'll not rest. And if you send any psychos round my gaff you prove my fucking point, and I'm fae Glasgow. I'll rip their eyes out.

Sorry

So yeah spirits are real, and anxiety the product of the human world. Try and crack out the fog, expect an invasion. Fuck this shit. I'm an ordinary man who loves books, music and love as well. Might be better to just let this shithole burn. I'm not equipped to stop this, and it puts my family's life at risk. Fuck it. You guys are on your own.

Fuck knows when this was written. Discarded lol, entitled 'Tragedy'.

Tragedy, a dying sun
Drifts undulating across a tapestry torn  
Picturesque, pretty and shorn
From a womb divided by unravelling hope
Waves uniformly crashing  
Unravelling the bone beaches of hourglass minds.
 
So uniform in their capricious nature
Undulating within jagged stagnant snares
Rising like the notes of steel hammers clashing out amongst the furnace
 A tempest of terror
Thoughts seek new masters
Darting like serpentine sharks amongst the blood of believers.
 
The fates rise up in a maelstrom
And our natures are exposed
Manipulative maidens and masculine malevolence
Like hurricanes, shrill winds exposing eternal truth
Homage to my own carpenters art
Homage to the truth
Homage to the sparks and the incandescent gods that remain

And it felt powerfully external. Wasn't like here go see your mates and leave yer wife and kid for an hour. Tore my psyche to shreds.

Ah fuck

Or it could be just the subconscious trying to break through to highlight the issues affecting my mind (real issues outlined in the novel) and combined with the drugs my mind fractured.

To be fair that's part of it lol. But I'm not ready to dismiss the shamanic weirdness yet. Makes too much sense 😆 only cos of the self healing

If... I can prove my singing and writing, then by definition, not all of this can be a fantasy. I know I self healed the fog of anxiety. Human brains are not meant to spin. They move from point to point.

Prologue  
‘… He sees your thoughts as sin,
Exposed and bare like skin,
I am in service to the muse.
Forever lost, unsought,
He comes when I have not,
My final service to the muse.’
 
The climatic line sheered the air: rays of sunshine, unveiling a frozen morning. The raw melancholy distilled throughout the contestant’s performance continued to shiver the entire audience, as if the whole herd of them had just been released from a naked embrace.
She bobbed into a bow… And the Glasgow Arena detonated. The singer was in her thirties, and petite, with arresting, green eyes. She looked pale under the blazing spotlights. The crowd’s thunder continued; she beamed back, waving.
‘Amazing!’ Johnny Gale—one of the “Talent Attack” judges—declared into his microphone. Johnny’s cheeks were webbed with purple veins: testifying to a fondness for hard liquor. He had, however, managed some of the most successful pop acts in Britain over the past two decades.
Pauline Austin—the second “Talent Attack” judge—wiped at the tears trickling down her Botox cheekbones. Pauline had packed out stadiums herself in her youth, and was no stranger to the admiration of crowds.  
‘Marvellous,’ she gushed.
‘Thank you,’ the contestant said, in a guttural, Glaswegian accent. ‘I’m Alison. I’d like tae thank my mum, my dad, my boyfriend… Anyone who’s ever shown me support. This is a dream come true!’  
‘You truly are a “Talent Attack”!’ Damien Powell interjected, rising to his feet to join with the applause.  
Slim and in his fifties, with a full head of black hair, Damien—the record-industry magnate in charge of “Talent Attack”—grinned at Alison. His smile never touched his wolf’s eyes though; he weighed Alison, like a lamb strayed from the flock.
‘I didnae come here tae compete, actually,’ Alison replied. ‘In fact, you can eat my arse!’  
Stunned murmurs exploded amongst the stands. The judges were poleaxed.  
‘You can’t say that!’ Damien exclaimed. ‘You’re live on…’
‘Fuck you,’ Alison replied. ‘You dobber.’  
The audience fell into terse silence. Some rose to their feet, hands over their mouths. Damien’s jaw clenched; his expression was an axe descending. The other judges glanced away, each discovering something in the floorboards beneath their feet.
‘I know what you are,’ Alison continued, showing each of the judges—in turn—the bird. ‘A cancer! Where are the great artists of this era, those who would bring culture and support tae the disaffected? Yous ram money down the throats of any wae ability when you’ve less than I dae in one finger! Wanks!’  
She strode down the stage’s steps and forged towards the exit; a hubbub swelled in her wake.  
‘I am deeply sorry,’ Pauline said, addressing the audience. ‘We never suspected that anyone could show such disrespect. We’re appalled at her language…’
‘Fuck!’  
Damien’s booming cry had been picked up by an errant mic. Pauline yelped. Johnny leaned into Damien and placed a consoling hand around his shoulder.  
‘We’re live,’ he hissed into Damien’s ear. ‘The show must…’  
The whine of a guitar cut Johnny off, loud, even through the amphitheatre’s doors.  
‘A phone,’ Damien snarled. A tic pulsed above his left eye. ‘We cannot work in these conditions! Get me the police, now!’  
An assistant scurried a mobile over, which Damien snatched.  
‘This is Damien Powell!’ he snarled. ‘I am trying to run a show here and this woman, this Alison…’  
There was a pause as Damien listened.  
‘What do you mean, you’re aware of the situation?’  
His mouth formed an “O” as he stared at the cameras, as if noticing them for the first time.  
‘You must also be aware,’ he demanded, mopping his brow, ‘that we are a multimillion-pound enterprise?’  
He listened intently to the reply.  
‘Thank you!’ he barked, and stormed from the Arena.
‘Follow him,’ Pauline said, snapping her fingers at a camera operator. ‘This is great telly.’
#
Damien screamed for security, who began clearing the spectators clogging his path.  
Alison’s vocals soared over the chaos:
 
‘My senses, so distinct, unique,
In this blue, bourgeoisie boutique,
I’ll tyrannise senescent skies,
Accumulate each major prize.
 
Appropriate lavish jewels,
Avoid the directives of fools,
Discern abundance with my touch,
In glossy magazines and such.
 
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.
 
Alongside the righteous spectre,
I’ll imbibe ambrosial nectar,  
Will you soak in fortune's wellspring?
Will you vibrate Cupid's bowstring?
 
When they sink me into the ground,                
And celebrate around that mound,
I’ll sow dreams from another frontier,
Always relieving the palsy of fear.
 
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.’
 
The camera operator emerged into summer sunshine, training his lens on Alison, who strutted atop a makeshift platform with her band. A generator churned the stench of petrol into the air while muscular roadies shoved back against the Arena’s own guards. Gigantic stage amps burst out the band’s sound: a maelstrom, sucking the gawking press ever closer to the stage.  
The song dissolved into a riot: screeching guitar, crashing cymbals, and reverberating bass.  
‘Hello Glasgow!’ Alison howled.
The drummer beat down a booming rhythm.  
The bassist throbbed a heartbeat.  
The guitarist pirouetted; instrument levelled at the heavens. She discharged an insurrection.  
‘Act your age!’ Damien shrieked, as a woman—ten years his senior—tried to get him to dance. Hands were propelled into the air. A skinny fellow whipped his T-shirt off to launch it at the stage.  
A flash of blue flared into the camera lens and its operator spun to find the source. Further down the boulevard, two police vans had halted and began disgorging officers.  
Their sergeant assumed point, clasping a megaphone. ‘This gathering is unlawful!’ he cried.
The music faltered. The roadies slunk away as the cops tramped closer. Boos sounded out.  
Someone amongst the crowd shouted, ‘Fuck the pigs!’  
Discontent rippled: either at the police, or at the person shouting, or both… It was hard to say. The sergeant scowled and fingered his holster, loaded with pepper spray. Alison spotted this and raised her hands, palms held out.  
‘Please,’ she beseeched. ‘If yous want tae hear mair, our album is available on Spotify. We are “Due to the Muse”…’  
‘How dare you plug your album on my show?’ Damien yelled, yanking onlookers from his path. ‘How dare you? Don’t you know who I am…’ A precisely thrown apple burst against the back of his head.  
‘They have roused a rabble!’ he sputtered. ‘They should all be arrested!’  
A hail of missiles whistled towards Damien: the police surged to slap handcuffs onto the band, who were hauled off towards the meat wagons. Damien—dripping refuse—reached the cameraman and switched the live feed off.
#
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Act One
No One
A pallid finger traces round my scars,
Her lingering caress, her fleeting smile,
Forever curses me into exile,
As moonlit waters guide travelling stars,
She ushers perpetual nightmares in,
Her lips, puckered to puncture like a rose,
A deceitful beak, emphasized in woe,
She sways intimately, her satin skin,
Disguises an abyss I must delve alone,
While her raven crown, of silken tresses,
Obscures a well befouled with poison wishes,
She offers me nothing, her heart is stone,
And reaches out, her leisurely embrace,
Escorts me down, down to my resting place.
 
 

Expect to hear me on the radio. I like dance music, and have found a producer. Messages of love and solidarity forthcoming

Anxiety is a precursor to what I experienced. Everyone, stay on the meds till I write this fucking book.

For anyone else reading this, it tried to take me out my family home. Thing is evil I've changed my mind. It's not human. And it's a fucker. A complete fucker, it will lie and eat u. Anyone who can withstand it is deserving of respect, because it kills everyone else.

Feel a bit better, day at a time. This interpretation is even weirder lol.

Ancient African spirit. Curse of Aztec gold? Kinda knock on effect through history. If that's the case, it won't be a racial consciousness so the sub conscious is able to fight. Trust ur instincts. Stay off drugs. Meditate like fuck. And if ur as afflicted as I was, consider antipsychotics. They deffo help. If as I suspect the bastard has lied and claimed responsibility for ur healing... give it time. Least 6 weeks, then start relearning instruments. It's just a mental block this thing has installed in ur mind.

It's just seeing things differently. I could always see the evil in the world, it's fucking evident. Now, I see how to help heal those evils. True sight, is the thing. My personal relationships have been a joke my entire life too, up until 2 days ago really. I was just so lucky in my friends, my wife. It offered me a clean slate too, but only because it sensed I was about to come good. Then, the fucker claimed responsibility for my healing. My healing. Mine. If it wasn't such a crazy bastard I'd be tempted to rip it's head off myself.

As it is... I feel sorry for it. It was powerless to protect Africa, and Jim. It can't stop force so it decided (I believe) to manipulate mankind to end it's own pain.