Fragments of a Once Broken Mind

Awaken to dream and be the lucid dreamer.
This article is one of a series on my experience of psychosis. The articles are:

In a Different Place

In a different place, in a different life, I did community service in Cambridge. Three memories remain.

Clearing a lake a young gypsy lad asked me if I'd ever stabbed anyone. He meant me no harm and I replied that I didn't like the sight of other people's blood.

Then, in a workshop on Newmarket road, we built bikes painted green from abandoned wrecks or unclaimed stolen property. This was to be Cambridge's community bike scheme, free to use. Within a week of starting all the bikes were gone. Most probably drowned in the Cam. A common tragedy perhaps. Building bikes they bullied me and threatened me and I didn't go back.

After the court summons they sent me to a little charity distributing furniture, run by a queer man in his forties and a capable dyke. He told stories of sex with the Queen's horse guardsmen, all as queer as him it seems. They were kind and they were good, and although I was so bound up and couldn't speak much they saw me and they held me for a little while before I fell.

Love Poems

How nice it is to be held, by a promise or a kiss. Isn't it lovely. I promise to love you my darling, and see how its held me. Our love holds.

I should so like to burn for eternity with you. What do you say my love, shall we try it, and if it be possible maybe we shall find it. And if it be not, we're none the sadder for our dreams.

I should so like to burn with eternity for you.

IAO I adore thee, magickal thou art. Evoe. IAO, the black and red sigil of my desire that is also my love. Evoe, the green and white and silver response soft sighs from every evergreen bowed gentle with snow.


I have come to an uneasy peace with my nightmare. An agreement between me and the nameless, shapeless horror that swallowed my years and dragged me desolate and alone to a place no-one should go. For though it mauled and wounded me, it also shaped and formed me. In its way it birthed me, for it taught me and I am forever marked.

Never will I walk that road again, never would I have chosen it. That path I took marred everything I cared about, and I alone am to blame. But still, I wouldn't swap with anyone. There are lessons that only the nightmare can teach (and sure we must all learn to dance with our own nightmare as I have danced with mine). So in a manner I love that horror, for what I could have learned no other way. And in our mutual understanding we have become friends. And thus its power is mine.

But perhaps after all, the horror is just me.


Beauty cries in the corner, alone. She weeps for no-one looks, out of fear we pretend not to care. And our secret love burns and hurts, but who will be the first to turn and look? Few it seems, and instead we dull the hurt and choose to be blind. After all, it's what everyone does and we can't all be wrong surely?

Now beauty is angry. What could be more beautiful, or angrier. Where did you get that idea my love? Well it just stands to reason. She stands. Beauty stands for reason, and she's angry.

Beauty is such a con. The only way to find her, as you seek and ache and burn, is to become beautiful. And then, the trickstress, you can't help but see her everywhere. She was never hidden!

Beauty goes by many names. My favourite of her names is kindness. Before her I am unmade.

At the heart of beauty is a poison, a molecular unbinding. And if you won't be unmade, perhaps you die.

"Remain rational in the face of irrationality. But for that to work the irrationality part is mandatory. Required by law. Possibly enforced. Who knows, not me that's for sure!"

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