Intuitive Writing

I have less of an attachment to people and material things.

I have felt what it is to be free in my own being.

I’m trying to find purpose which leads me with an unneeded dull feeling of dissatisfaction.

No palpitations.

No anxiousness.

I’ve never felt anything negative towards you.

I don’t need you any more, I just want you.

We spoke so much.

I’ve found a girl for you. There’s no pressure. Just talk.

His date had loads of drugs on him.

I was trying to click my heels in the air and landed funny. I heard the crack.

You’re my biggest fan – you come here all the time!

Tomorrow’s going to be tough. Can I just sneak out? Probably not.

I learnt that the most blissful moments are when you’re truly in the moment of now.

Watching and listening to the waves while the sand wraps around one’s feet.

If we went back to India, we could not do this.

We’re women. We can’t wear a bikini there.

I’m more free here.

Every human has free will. – No, they don’t.

It’s the 21st century.

We have a choice. We can do what the fuck we like.

Change alone is changeless.

Are you Chinese? No, I’m half Filipino.

What are you?

People have always used it in a bad way.

You fuckin’ what?

Oh shit, it’s 1 o’clock.


The universe is an infinite amount of possibilities, perhaps possibilities that are reliving themselves. What if I am in fact a recreation of myself? What if in my previous incarnation I was a flower or a stone or something? We don’t know anything really. And as I type, freely, without will, I’m not quite sure where I’m going with this which is quite the apt reflection of my life as it now. The possibilities are endless. Or do they have and end? Are they end-full? Full of ends. Like my ashtray. One after the other after the other. People of and around my age sit, expecting knowledge and wisdom and appreciating every little bit of voiced air that passes through my lips. For them it’s knowledge, for me it’s acquirement. One after the other. It’s quite the microcosm at this institution of language giving; people come and go, they enter and pass through your life, exchange e-mails in the warm glow of endings that are fixed in a positive peak. Perhaps that how life should be lived. A series of positive endings. Because nothing is an end is it? It’s a cycle. Regurgitating cycle. Maybe, then, the point is to try your hardest to stop the cycle in its tracks. To release the air from the tyres, to puncture oneself in to something new. You could just get a puncture repair kit, fix the puncture and be on your way but it’d be the same path as before, right? Maybe it’s time to discard the bi-cycle and find a new route. The beginning has already begun but … where does it end? That’s just it. It doesn’t.

So, fuck it and dance.

I’m taking a dive in to the world of teaching. The form of teaching I profess is that of TEFL, which for anybody who is reading and doesn’t know is “teaching English as a foreign language.” It comes under many different guises, all amounting to the same thing. My other personal endeavour has taken a back seat somewhat whilst I assimilate myself to such a venture. The previous business is like my actual child and though I’m a man, it feels like I’ve actually given birth to it, so spending less time on it feels like the moral outcry of child neglect. It’s my passion turned business that doesn’t make a whole lot of money but gives me 10 times as much satisfaction. Of recent, that chasing of passion has somewhat deflated me. The passion remains intact but my thoughts and cravings are changing as I age past what’s deemed “young person”. I’m kidding myself on that, as it’s been a few years to what is labelled as a young person in the UK, but I think I’ve continued it for as long as possible. And had a bloody good time with it.

I digress. As usual.

My first official student is a 50+ year old bulbous father of three (or four, I can’t remember, despite the amount of times we’ve practised such conversation) from Saudi Arabia. His form is round, like a snowman, only darker. His hair lessens the further you trace up to the cone of his scalp so he has a thin mullet, without the mullet top, of which is replaced by a shiny baldness. He is short in stature and is rather very funny indeed. We’ve acquired a relationship by where he has opened up his personality, which at times is totally child-like and for me, quite endearing. I sometimes wonder how he manages to live in a foreign land without the caring and culturally submissive wife at hand. That is not to patronise, as he is a father and has lived his life as a teacher.

The English language is a wondrous thing, it’s a tool of communication and what I’m enjoying about teaching is the way in which writing seems to, at the moment anyway, come naturally. At times I’ve had such a block and I recognise mistakes but I am unaware of how to correct them. Now, I’m relearning tenses, the many irregularities and difficulties that verbs possess, particularly for somebody whose mother tongue is not English, ever more so when their language is far from European.

Slowly but surely it feels as though I’m partaking in life again, however temporary this particular student may be for me; the changes I wholeheartedly made at the beginning of the year are showing results.

Persistence, dedication, focus, will, strength of mind, maturity and even a few little requests to the universe, are what have made this possible. Really, anything you put your mind to is possible. They really are endless.

I want to know what these songs feel like again. It feels as though an adventure will bring to life the dull and foretold predictive memories. Memories that have yet to happen, just brisk flocks of light, flashing a moment of sepia brilliance. To live by such untold loneliness is something I expect to be shared between most souls on this Earth. I feel the tragedy of my mother’s life, small but significantly debilitating occurrences blight her slowed pace. Tiny movements of age are making her succumb and I notice her soul grow tired; it shows in her eyes. I’m humbled and ashamed in the presence of my current self who seeks a way to fill her life with some form of joy, some fresh and happy memories, but still she struggles on. I battle with my lack of ambition, or moreso the ability in implementing such ambition. This weekend, I attended a baby shower. My cousin will give birth in a few weeks and to witness the perfection of her and her family’s ascension was awe-inspiring. I observed like a stranger through a window what life if typically like, that of family and security and a natural (by society’s means) ticking off of life steps. It was a beautiful and wondrous thing to observe though for me, and for me personally, it was dulled by a sad ache. Perhaps it stems back to my mother, as most things I do in life do. I want her to have something to make life exciting again, and that would be an extension to our family. Last month, an incident occurred. There fell some tears from her wise eyes. There’s a part of her that’s broken, be it from her father’s utter disregard for the things she wanted to achieve or my father’s unsuccessful attempt to nurture such innate intelligence. She is the emblem of things that can go wrong and that tears me up.

Perhaps my attempts in planning an escape aren’t actually helping towards a common goal. A goal of which I’m sure I continue to sparsely remind myself of, to help my mother. I don’t know how, but I just feel it in my gut. For me, this is how emotion works. Sometimes I can walk in to a room and be smothered by spilled and lingering emotion in the air as it crashes over and through me, permeable the semi-naked mask I prolong to the public. Sometimes the weight of others’ emotion makes my feet heavier, my shoulders want to partner up with my ankles, and I sup it in like second hand smoke.

Things are changing and the couple of weekend’s of celebration have definitely took their toll on my emotions. This year is shaping up to be a good one. I just want more to be proud of myself for and in turn to see pride on my mother’s face would be something I haven’t helped her achieve for a very long time.

Blinkered lights, dots flashing before my eyelids, and I pray. I pray that I’ve done the right thing. If a person does right by their family, then surely they’ve done right by the universe. The universe and it’s ever-expanding solitude offers no answers. We’re born in to a system of rules and a society of religion. What is truth? When do we ever find out? And if the answer is null then do we aim to just maintain a sense of temporary happiness, moments of bliss, conjoined essence of dazed euphoria?

There lies below a soft bed of pretty and bright flowers waiting to synthesise my being in to oneness. I want for my soul to be free but not before I experience love in this world.

Music be the music of frequencies we don’t have the ability to witness. Infra red and x-rays and paradigms of light we just don’t have the intelligence or power to see. We can’t see past the colour of our curtains, as we stare beyond the glass in to a world that posseses only abject solidity.

Our minds are shrunk, they are frightened to do anything other than what is expected and the ones who swam in the unexpected are only lauded once their souls are free. At the time, they’re ludicrous.

Does this searching continue past our bodily existence? Do we ever find what we’re looking for?

Mother nature, take me and cradle me in your glow of expanse. Release the demons that forlorn me to this misery. Misery created by boxes, within boxes, within labels.

Hello, society.


There’s this feeling of which I can’t locate. How strange that the intellect limits the means to describe a feeling? It’s a sadness. It’s a quiet mulling over of nothingness. It’s of striving to be the best I can and the fight to achieve that, the uphill motions. I know more than anyone that living is the now, to remain positive is to lap up the current, to look around and absorb everything that makes me .. me. The family of which I am forever grateful but take for granted; the food derived from love of a mother, not just the food I eat but the emitting of love from everything she does; the way in which my family don’t know a significant part of me. Some would say it’s nobody’s business, but it’s all relative and I want them to share who I am before it’s too late. I guess it’s fear that holds me back, the fear of change, the fear that my life will be different. Perhaps it won’t, perhaps if I if were to slot in the fact that I like dudes won’t change a thing. I haven’t started living yet, I’m unable to be myself. I know that when I do tell, when it does surface, when what’s really within me it’ll feel like the crashing of a waterfall to its bed, like a bird in flight against a hazy, deep orange sunset, like the blooming of a flower in the spring’s new day, like the birth of a baby, the weep of joy and new beginnings. It’s only me who holds back what I want to happen, but the outcome of how people feel is not up to me and I guess that’s what stops me in my tracks. This is why I believe leaving the country to really become comfortable in being able to expose myself at a later time is of need. I don’t want to run from my family, from what I know, but it feels like a gut instinct. I feel I need to tear myself away in order to tear what they know about me in half. We’re governed by fear and love, those two emotions rule every other feeling. I guess, though I hate to admit it in my stubborn ways, that fear is overriding the love at present. I can go days without noticing sometimes, but moments like now just bring stuff to the surface and I’m losing my battle with being a master of disguise. It’s repressing who I am, I can’t be this person, I need to regain myself, I need to be me and to be loved in being me. My personality is suppressed, it’s fading, like the closing of an acorn, trod on, squashed, tired. I’m tired. This doesn’t mean that at times I don’t appreciate what I do have, the fact that I have lungs to breathe and legs to walk and a fingers to type and heart to love with. I am humble in the world’s presence, in the love others give me, in the breath of fresh air. I love life, I just want for it to be free, no cost, not governed by a society or culture that makes people like me hide themselves. There must be millions of others like me and for them I feel pain too. We’re a world trapped in so many wrongdoings. Aside from all of that, this life is for the taking and we are the rulers of our garden. It’s time to climb.

I’m giving this intuitive writing a blast. I don’t know where it will lead but it sounds appealing and I’m sure I used to be able to do this with ease, back when I was more open to the world and open to allowing people seep in. I don’t know. I don’t know. With you it’s always something. Blank mind. Empty space. I’ve been so true to you. With you it’s always something. I can’t seem to get past this block. It feels like I’m caged within a metre squared brick encasing of a house. The chimney releases smoke from my incessant cigarette cures. I’m not really sure how I feel about my friends. I’ve been thinking am I developing some sort of social despair? I’m sort of getting over that now, the result of being locked up for a year, no job, no cash, but with the stronghold of family love. That’s kept me grounded. Without them I truly don’t know where I’d be. In a council house perhaps, living in the same mental state but with no immediate love around me. I’m being looked after and in a way it can devour what society deems to be a man. It eats it up, soaks like a sponge, wrings out on the street, complementing the rain and dog piss that has spawned before. Trees. Africa. Warmth. I’m looking out of the window and the trees sit still while house music beats allow some form of nestling sympathy. My soul is torn. But it’s fixing. I’m even attending a positive thinking course with my guru-like friends on Tuesday. I’m extending my teaching course and I’m developing my own digital magazine. One day I’ll look back and be safe in the knowledge that I got over this period of time, that it was a difficult state of affairs brought on by my own lack of empathy for myself. So with this teaching course I’ll be able to earn some money, save, plan, make dreams a reality, because anything can be achieved. That’s what I’d tell my kids too, I’d tell them to go out and achieve what you want. Don’t bring me down. Bring me down. Don’t bring down. So my guru-like friends will be attending this positive course with me; they’re actually guiding me somewhat through this path to … well not enlightenment but some form of resolution. They probably don’t know how much more at ease they make me feel to be back on this positive path. I give them thanks, they give me strength. I want to become that person I was, I was charming and happy and people drew towards me, they talked to me, strangers approached me, smiled at me and I’d notice. I’d appreciate all of this. I remember at uni and work, my bus journey’s were a place of reflection but also a place of interaction. Watching things whizz on by, people, buildings, the sun sometimes blaring on my face, the rain down the windows, that sort of environment brought out in me a sense of relaxation. I like being around people but not necessarily interacting with them, but then again I guess you’re always interacting with people and the world if you’re so involved or immersed in it. The other night, for my birthday, another thing I’m grateful for, was the transition from bar to bar, where drunkenly me and my friends were loud and laughing. Those are the moments I know will keep me sane. In fact, I’ve been reveling in that moment for about a week now. One friend in particular, we have history, we are very close, she’s too funny. Her humour is ridiculously vile and would not be accepted as a general rule for being too inpolitically correct, but that suits me fine. A sort of escapism from what society deems as acceptable, as long as we’re not hurting anybody directly. Hmm, this is kind of cathartic isn’t it? I’m not sure who’d sit and read all of this really but the feeling of my fingers tapping on the keyboard without really thinking about it is quite freeing. It’s refreshing. And with that I’m going to stop.