190427112059 (the end of his novella).

"..and with that, he came to realise that people, be they friends, family, strangers or colleagues, cared not for what he created. Such was the liberation that accompanied this thought, that he smiled, the gentle beam that only a man at peace could either produce or understand. No longer would he bound by societal obligations and human shortcomings. True freedom had presented itself to The Gilt Kid."

2) The rituals of the damned.

"At what point did you decide, actually conclude, that self harm was an inevitability?"

She scoffed, ever so slightly so that the man asking her questions didnt think she was entirely crazy.

"To be frank, I don't think it was a decision that I made, with intent and purpose. It was just..."

Her pause had him clinging with intrigue.

"It's like a tap. I was wound way too tight and the harm, well I suppose it was a huge release, literally being turned towards... freedom and...release."

He was pleased with her response. His canine like nodding and note scribbling confirmed it. She too was slightly pleased with herself. Remembering such a disingenuous response, word for word and being able to deliver the lines with guile and poise was an achievement. Thank god for daytime TV she thought, so many raw emotions captured on film, it was always handy to draw on others for inspiration.


"I think now Dr Gruisin," she continued, "its about finding a balance, being able to let my emotions pour out in a timely and appropriate manner." She took a deep breathe and conjured a smile, an illusive and pensive smile. "Deep breathe..." she whispered to herself. "No more floods Dr Gruisin... more floods."


"That sounds like a great place to end today's session" he responded as he rose from his chair and looked her square in the eyes. "You are making fantastic progress. Truly, you are." Although his words were positive in nature and intonation, his face told a different story. His muted expressions added a touch of blandness to his words. She saw it and somehow, she took great pleasure in this. He shuffled around his leather chair and opened the door for her.

"I'll schedule next week with Sophia before I leave Dr Gruisin." she called, now standing at the doorway to his office.

"You do that" he responded. "Take care."

She stated at him, rather past him, into his cramped office, his walls decorated with certificates and plaques, doing an amicable job to hide some of that horrendous torpe pain.

"Thanks again Dr Gruisin" she said and with that, she closed the door.

As she strolled down the windowless corridor, she wondered how many times Dr Gruisin had contemplated taking his own life, how many times he had wanted to over prescribe himself some drug or another. She didn't believe his psychobabble and she very much doubted that he did either. But it was all a game and a business, telling people what they wanted to hear, receiving medicinal absolution from a person with very little knowledge of indulgence and despair, the driving force of those referred to psychotherapy. Luckily for her, the world was had become one big Dr Gruisin session, with people willing to divulge their inner self in return for a pair of ears and a captive audience, a necessary tool for her at this junction in her life.

"Afternoon Sophia. Can I book for the same time next week?"

"Of course. I'll put it in the book."  As she watched Sophia scribble down the appointment, she realised that having to undergo therapy was not such a hideous ideal. After all, it was either this, or a custodial sentence and despite what Dr Gruisin may have thought, she very much had her wits about her.










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Mothering Sunday

Mothering Sunday. Like most public days of celebration, I know little of its origin but a day when society chooses to stop and thank the matriarchs, is a gesture that has always resonated well with me.

I remember I asked my mother once about the meaning of Mothering Sunday and why there was no "Children's Sunday" or "Toddler Tuesday". Hastily, she replied that everyday was "Children's day". Me, being the obnoxious individual that I am, then demanded a present every day, nothing big, but a present nonetheless, everyday, to which she responded that "every day is for children because they receive day in day out, food, clothing, shelter, the works."

Of course I saw this as a mountainous pile of incomprehensible adult reasoning but over the years, I have mused on her conclusion and have found some truth in her words. Mothers spend a great deal of their lives raising their young, only for their young, to out grow them, create worlds for themselves and eventually leave - it's a tripe system best but it is part of our nature

Ideally, we would display great affection and respect on a daily basis, to the woman who carried us and who, relatively, is the closet thing we have to any sort of God on this earth, but if we take one day of the year to celebrate the strength, courage and selflessness of Mothers, than with that, I can find some justice.