So far over sixty-five million dollars has been raised by Red Cross for their 2009 Victoria Bushfire Appeal, a staggering amount of money compared with events I have seen staged in the United Kingdom for disaster relief, but then that is how Australia is. Aussies love a battler, and more than a battler Aussies love other Aussies. In 2005 the fires were here on Southern Eyre with the loss of thousands of hectares of farmland, hundreds of animals, and nine South Australians, (including three known to our close friendship group). Then millions of dollars and shedloads of stuff was sent from across Australia to help us; a generosity and acts of love not forgotten by us as we now have the opportunity to give as well.
It may be true that Australia is not the best country in the world in rallying around itself during times of trial, (although it probably is true); and I am certain that other countries must do this sort of thing, but right now I am proud to be Australian and to hear and see the heart of my nation for my people. I was pleased to see the envelope passed down the Regional Express 1135 from ADL to PLO last Wednesday, to see that over $800 had been raised just from that little 30 seat SAAB in a little more than three hours of flying. It was just an A4 envelope, passed hand to hand down the rows and we were the aircraft’s third flight of the day; I was blessed to see bush-blokes pulling several orange and yellow notes from their wallets, not just the pink or blue ones, and putting them in the envelope as if they were posting mail. “Just doin’ me job mate.” Of course you were: and you’d probably already done it at Adelaide Airport before boarding the flight and at Elders before heading for the airport. You know you’re in the right country when the national news tells you to “stop sending stuff as we are swamped”, to send money instead, and the national giving to one appeal total tops ten million dollars a day, each day, for several days on end.
What has also been brought home to me as a Melbourne-boy, born and raised then moved away, is the locality of this season’s fires. The campsite where my brother and I used to go “to camp” as pre-teens lost two of its five bunkhouses and the main dining room/auditorium complex. I think of that place often as I had some great experiences there, both as a growing boy and a growing Christian. Now it’s gone and there are photos on their website to prove it: along with the news that every member of staff and each of the ninety campers onsite at the time were all successfully evacuated. The office is already being moved to Healesville so as to continue their mission of ministering to their community. Legends!
Kinglake was a place suburbanites like us would drive through on our way from “The City” to “The Snow”. I was at secondary school with kids from Bunyip.
In 1983 the fires of Ash Wednesday burned down the houses of two of my school friends in North Pakenham, along with the “other church” of the two-congregation Anglican parish where I was Confirmed. It burned close to us as it went through Mount Macedon, and as it burned across the Adelaide Hills it destroyed places more familiar to us now as new resident citizens of the People’s Republic of South Australia.
My family has stories of the bushfires near Melbourne in the 1930s and 1960s; of my grandfather disappearing for four days while “away at the fires”. My brother and I were present to defend our house in Hobart in 1995 as the flames came over Mt Nelson and burned out a paddock across the road from us while we stood in thick jumpers and jeans and hosed down our roof and spouting. Fire is what we do, but then we are an Australian family and fire is what everyone does and has done for at least 221 years.
It is true that Australia burns like clockwork. This year is an El Nino year: every eleven to fifteen years we see extremes of weather while South America sees the inverse effect. Floods in the north, fires in the south: welcome to Australia in 2009, (1995-97, 1982-83, 1967-69). This has not, as some have said, anything to do with “so what is God saying to Australia”; El Nino means “the child” in Spanish, and yes it is named for Christ since the effects rise around the time of Christmas: but if God is saying anything to Australia is it what He says to anyone in distress; “I am with you”, “behold I make all things new”, and other less Biblical stuff like “yeah I know mate, this sucks it happened to you but you’ll be right”. (Or even “you’se’ll be roit” on occasion; this is The Great Southland of The Holy Spirit after all, and everyone knows Eden is just over the NSW side of the coastal boarder with Victoria, Paradise a suburb of Adelaide, and The Promised Land and Beulah just inland from Devonport in Tasmania.) We learned as children how to live in Australia; primary school when I was a boy featured repeated lessons on how to survive a bushfire, or snake bite, or spider bite, or poisoning by octopus/jellyfish/stonefish; we know this happens and we know what to do.
But this year it has been different, and that is what makes 2009 bigger than normal. (Yes “normal”.) Stay home and defend your well prepared property we are told; and people died. Get in your car and escape because cars will not often explode we are told; and people died. The Adelaide Advertiser today reports on Marysville in narrative form: at 17:15 people were kicking back with the aircon and a coldie as the fires burned ten miles away. By 18:15 the town had been wiped off the face of the earth and almost a hundred had died: maybe a hundred by the time forensics have finished: and what with the chance that this was arson the whole town has been cop-taped off as a crime scene.
When your Prime Minister appears in tears on internationally televised news and swears that we will find every one of the fire-bug arsonists, you know you’re in the best country on earth. When you read of the nine charred bodies found in one house, eight huddled around the baby at the centre, it breaks your heart that “home” could be so cruel.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Selwyn Hughes said the Sacrifice of Praise is thanksgiving with blood on its hands. Hughes was the writer behind Every Day with Jesus, a daily devotional read by millions around the world and a tool used by God to cement His truths in hearts across the nations. He was also a widower, a man who lost his wife to cancer twenty years before his own death; he also outlived their two sons. Yet Selwyn Hughes continued to write the praises and glories of his God of abundance: surely an act of thanksgiving with blood on its hands.
Today one of the lead stories on the news concerns the upcoming battle for the number one Christmas single. Two competing versions of Leonard Cohen’s 1984 song Hallelujah look like taking positions one and two on next week’s chart: for the first time two cover versions of the one song filling both top positions on the Christmas week charts. I must admit that this song, in the Velvet Underground’s John Cale’s version, was until recently for me “the wedding theme from Shrek”; but today I went and looked up the lyrics. It is a Sacrifice of Praise.
Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
I love the anguish of that last couplet; it’s hardly All Tomorrow’s Parties is it? (But perhaps Bathsheba was Venus in Furs, it sure makes Psalm 51:7 a lot more interesting.)
Well baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Leonard Cohen spent over a year writing this song, and wrote over eighty verses before settling on the final six he released in 1988; he substantially rewrote it in 1994. Can it be called a labour of love? Not with that refrain.
Well maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
I love words and I have always found strength in my own prayers in the Hebrew word "Hosanna". Hallelujah translates to English as “praise God” Hallelu Jah(weh), where Hosanna is “God save me”. Hosanna is a cry of desperate dependence: it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. Unlike CQD or SOS Hosanna is more than a cry for assistance, it’s a sacrifice of praise.
Whether Alexandra or Jeff top the chart on Friday I’m stoked that “Christian Rhyme” as Cliff might (not) call it will be the song on everyone’s I-pod.
Today one of the lead stories on the news concerns the upcoming battle for the number one Christmas single. Two competing versions of Leonard Cohen’s 1984 song Hallelujah look like taking positions one and two on next week’s chart: for the first time two cover versions of the one song filling both top positions on the Christmas week charts. I must admit that this song, in the Velvet Underground’s John Cale’s version, was until recently for me “the wedding theme from Shrek”; but today I went and looked up the lyrics. It is a Sacrifice of Praise.
Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
I love the anguish of that last couplet; it’s hardly All Tomorrow’s Parties is it? (But perhaps Bathsheba was Venus in Furs, it sure makes Psalm 51:7 a lot more interesting.)
Well baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Leonard Cohen spent over a year writing this song, and wrote over eighty verses before settling on the final six he released in 1988; he substantially rewrote it in 1994. Can it be called a labour of love? Not with that refrain.
Well maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
I love words and I have always found strength in my own prayers in the Hebrew word "Hosanna". Hallelujah translates to English as “praise God” Hallelu Jah(weh), where Hosanna is “God save me”. Hosanna is a cry of desperate dependence: it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. Unlike CQD or SOS Hosanna is more than a cry for assistance, it’s a sacrifice of praise.
Whether Alexandra or Jeff top the chart on Friday I’m stoked that “Christian Rhyme” as Cliff might (not) call it will be the song on everyone’s I-pod.
The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
The stated moral of the story of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, has a deeper significance for me than merely raising the great Bohemian ideals of Freedom, Truth and Beauty. Love, as The Beatles sang, is all you need; a sour note in the current climate surrounding Sir Paul and his Lady Mucca.
God is love, the Bible in the First Letter of John states this plainly, but is God all we need? There are some very lonely Christians around the place, desperate for the love and affection of fellow creatures (preferably humans of the opposite sex); many who have found this love which I have not, would agree with the above statement for as long as it lasts.
This is the incomplete one...and is better left that way. Maybe I'll use the title for another effort, but this one works best left as is...
God is love, the Bible in the First Letter of John states this plainly, but is God all we need? There are some very lonely Christians around the place, desperate for the love and affection of fellow creatures (preferably humans of the opposite sex); many who have found this love which I have not, would agree with the above statement for as long as it lasts.
This is the incomplete one...and is better left that way. Maybe I'll use the title for another effort, but this one works best left as is...
If you can’t sing well, then just sing loud.
I must confess I am a big fan of the idea that if you can’t sing well then you should just sing loud, it says so much about confidence in the innate worth of the individual that I smile to think of this as a philosophy for life.
When I was small I was very small, smaller than all the other boys, even some of the younger boys were bigger than me, my little brother for one. I was always the last one picked for sport, lined up along the fence as all the heroes of playground footy/cricket/anything were numbered off by the opposing captains: just me and the fat kid, or just me and the kid on crutches and with plaster from groin to ankle awaiting the sealing of our fate, who would be chosen to leave the last one as the “default pick”. It was often me. I would like to say that I then played “loud”, but in all honesty my size was but one of my handicaps, the other being far more devastating: I was utterly crap at footy/cricket/anything and basically spent lunchtime running about calling vainly for a pass...never getting a touch.
Oddly enough, or perhaps it isn’t; singing was one thing I could do. I didn’t need to sing loud because I could sing well, (I still can). But I did sing loud, if not in volume then in influence: I was the only boy in the school choir. Nowadays being the one boy among twenty two girls would be a bonus, but as a twelve year old it underlined the awful truth, I was too small to play footy/cricket/anything with the boys. But I didn’t care, because I could sing and I did sing, and I sang in the front row where everyone could see me and admire my bravery at sticking with choir. And I did know it was brave, I realised that I could never compete in sport but I knew I could sing well and represent the school at that, and I did.
Now I sing at church along with the congregation, I was only in choir for two years, (the second year with four other boys, all too small for sport), but I remember the whispers and the words of praise my parents accepted on my behalf from the proud mums of Pakenham. I have decided to live well in the ways that I can, and loudly in all other things.
Jesus counselled the Laodicean Christians to be hot or cold but not lukewarm: this is the only way to live according to the Messiah. Perhaps he was talking about the life of faith, but then the life of faith is more than just about the stuff you do at church, it is living with purpose and bravery. It is a life that sings loudly at all times, learning to sing well by choosing to sing often: my life.
When I was small I was very small, smaller than all the other boys, even some of the younger boys were bigger than me, my little brother for one. I was always the last one picked for sport, lined up along the fence as all the heroes of playground footy/cricket/anything were numbered off by the opposing captains: just me and the fat kid, or just me and the kid on crutches and with plaster from groin to ankle awaiting the sealing of our fate, who would be chosen to leave the last one as the “default pick”. It was often me. I would like to say that I then played “loud”, but in all honesty my size was but one of my handicaps, the other being far more devastating: I was utterly crap at footy/cricket/anything and basically spent lunchtime running about calling vainly for a pass...never getting a touch.
Oddly enough, or perhaps it isn’t; singing was one thing I could do. I didn’t need to sing loud because I could sing well, (I still can). But I did sing loud, if not in volume then in influence: I was the only boy in the school choir. Nowadays being the one boy among twenty two girls would be a bonus, but as a twelve year old it underlined the awful truth, I was too small to play footy/cricket/anything with the boys. But I didn’t care, because I could sing and I did sing, and I sang in the front row where everyone could see me and admire my bravery at sticking with choir. And I did know it was brave, I realised that I could never compete in sport but I knew I could sing well and represent the school at that, and I did.
Now I sing at church along with the congregation, I was only in choir for two years, (the second year with four other boys, all too small for sport), but I remember the whispers and the words of praise my parents accepted on my behalf from the proud mums of Pakenham. I have decided to live well in the ways that I can, and loudly in all other things.
Jesus counselled the Laodicean Christians to be hot or cold but not lukewarm: this is the only way to live according to the Messiah. Perhaps he was talking about the life of faith, but then the life of faith is more than just about the stuff you do at church, it is living with purpose and bravery. It is a life that sings loudly at all times, learning to sing well by choosing to sing often: my life.
Wide, Wide As The Ocean
At church this morning I had the most wonderful experience, of seeing old people remembering their childhood. There should be more of it; indeed it was Jesus who talked about being as a little child in our dealings with God, it was that which I saw this morning.
I was unable to attend my own church today so I visited the local parish church, the only place of Christian celebration within walking distance of my home. I don’t usually connect too well with the worship life of this congregation; the people seem rather religious and set in their ways although they are not unfriendly. Today however during the communion songs the pianist played C. Austin Miles’ well known Sunday School anthem, a song I remember my grandmother singing to us and making us sing at Sunday concerts in the lounge room back in Melbourne. Well, here were these oldies singing along with all the glee of the under tens, doing the hand actions and smiling broadly with the memory of years long passed now and how they had first learned to worship, perhaps in this very house. It pleased me greatly to see this, there is some life in the old church yet; sadly that life seems limited to those at the upper end of chronology as the younger adults and none of the kids were so vigorous in joining in...or perhaps for them, like me, it wasn’t really their song.
This is a great song, almost lost under nana’s insistence that it be sung for the entertainment of the post-dinner parents of the mid 1980s and the chagrin of the suited and booted boys that my brother, cousins, and I were shoehorned into being. My saviour’s love is indeed as wide as the oceans, as high as the heavens, as deep as the seas. I’m not so certain about the theology of unworthiness, I once was but now am saved and therefore am worthy of His love, (the Bible tells me so, in Romans if you care to check), but I most certainly am a child of His care where His love reaches me wherever I am: even here, even now.
I am very much looking forward to going home next weekend, to being back at Hillsong Church London and all that home is and means, but today’s forced absence allowed me to see that there is indeed hope for the Church in this world, and in this country; that the tales of childhood do sustain those who choose to find sustenance there, that His grace is indeed sufficient for all our needs.
I need to be reminded of the great love of God, and of the promise that He is a good God and is good to those He loves: even me. I need this reminder often in my line of work, in my absence from my family, and in my struggles with a past that keeps me leg-roped to so much weight.
I was unable to attend my own church today so I visited the local parish church, the only place of Christian celebration within walking distance of my home. I don’t usually connect too well with the worship life of this congregation; the people seem rather religious and set in their ways although they are not unfriendly. Today however during the communion songs the pianist played C. Austin Miles’ well known Sunday School anthem, a song I remember my grandmother singing to us and making us sing at Sunday concerts in the lounge room back in Melbourne. Well, here were these oldies singing along with all the glee of the under tens, doing the hand actions and smiling broadly with the memory of years long passed now and how they had first learned to worship, perhaps in this very house. It pleased me greatly to see this, there is some life in the old church yet; sadly that life seems limited to those at the upper end of chronology as the younger adults and none of the kids were so vigorous in joining in...or perhaps for them, like me, it wasn’t really their song.
This is a great song, almost lost under nana’s insistence that it be sung for the entertainment of the post-dinner parents of the mid 1980s and the chagrin of the suited and booted boys that my brother, cousins, and I were shoehorned into being. My saviour’s love is indeed as wide as the oceans, as high as the heavens, as deep as the seas. I’m not so certain about the theology of unworthiness, I once was but now am saved and therefore am worthy of His love, (the Bible tells me so, in Romans if you care to check), but I most certainly am a child of His care where His love reaches me wherever I am: even here, even now.
I am very much looking forward to going home next weekend, to being back at Hillsong Church London and all that home is and means, but today’s forced absence allowed me to see that there is indeed hope for the Church in this world, and in this country; that the tales of childhood do sustain those who choose to find sustenance there, that His grace is indeed sufficient for all our needs.
I need to be reminded of the great love of God, and of the promise that He is a good God and is good to those He loves: even me. I need this reminder often in my line of work, in my absence from my family, and in my struggles with a past that keeps me leg-roped to so much weight.
Freedom, Beauty, Truth. Love.
I have a sneaking suspicion that Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge might just be the best film ever made. Well, perhaps not, but I have enjoyed seeing it again because it is full of cleverness. I have had the passing idea, all too passing actually, to attach new songs to old stories, to incorporate songs from various artists into a single show, like the ones playing in London at present yet not limited to one band. Baz has already done it, and done it well linking his story through the songs to an historical time, an infamous revolution in the arts, one of its great heroes, and its great downfall.
I am especially pleased that this film was made in Sydney, and features some of Australia’s finest actors in its many roles, indeed only Ewan McGregor is out of place among the leads.
Australia has no need for cultural cringe when such work as this can come from its shores, yet still the story is one of Montmartre and not of Melbourne. It reminds me of a panel discussion I saw on one of those Sunday afternoon’s arts shows on the ABC, where cultural cringe was being discussed by a group of Australians, including a koori. What was most notable about this panel was that all except the koori spoke in French. The French facilitator described what France knew of Australian culture and summed it up in the equation 32 and 17, not for the purpose of maths but for the purpose of sport, that being Australia’s winning margin over France in the 1999 RWC played at Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
Australia’s is not a Bohemian culture, but then, having recently visited Prague, I must say Bohemia’s isn’t a Bohemian culture either. The four great pillars of Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and most of all Love are somewhat forgotten, or perhaps only belittled, in our postmodern land girt by sea; but we still have much to be proud of beyond our prowess as a nation of wannabe Wallabies. (Especially following the 2007 RWC.) Australia is however a clever country, a creative country, a can-do nation of battlers, of Bazzas and Shazzas who can make art work just as easily as they can find water in a drought or convert a try from the sidelines. Australians have travelled beyond the Fatal Shore to establish themselves in all corners of the planet, how great it is that Baz Luhrmann is able to fly the flag from the Emerald City itself.
I dream of an Australia where we are known for more than just our green and gold; although may those great endeavours never cease. May we be proud of our clever Baz, and shine more light on Australian arts in cinema, literature, fine arts, and music of all genres. May we be proud of our Nicole, (born in Hawaii), but continue to shine light on Australian science and discovery. I love the sunburnt country, a land of untamed imagination.
I am especially pleased that this film was made in Sydney, and features some of Australia’s finest actors in its many roles, indeed only Ewan McGregor is out of place among the leads.
Australia has no need for cultural cringe when such work as this can come from its shores, yet still the story is one of Montmartre and not of Melbourne. It reminds me of a panel discussion I saw on one of those Sunday afternoon’s arts shows on the ABC, where cultural cringe was being discussed by a group of Australians, including a koori. What was most notable about this panel was that all except the koori spoke in French. The French facilitator described what France knew of Australian culture and summed it up in the equation 32 and 17, not for the purpose of maths but for the purpose of sport, that being Australia’s winning margin over France in the 1999 RWC played at Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
Australia’s is not a Bohemian culture, but then, having recently visited Prague, I must say Bohemia’s isn’t a Bohemian culture either. The four great pillars of Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and most of all Love are somewhat forgotten, or perhaps only belittled, in our postmodern land girt by sea; but we still have much to be proud of beyond our prowess as a nation of wannabe Wallabies. (Especially following the 2007 RWC.) Australia is however a clever country, a creative country, a can-do nation of battlers, of Bazzas and Shazzas who can make art work just as easily as they can find water in a drought or convert a try from the sidelines. Australians have travelled beyond the Fatal Shore to establish themselves in all corners of the planet, how great it is that Baz Luhrmann is able to fly the flag from the Emerald City itself.
I dream of an Australia where we are known for more than just our green and gold; although may those great endeavours never cease. May we be proud of our clever Baz, and shine more light on Australian arts in cinema, literature, fine arts, and music of all genres. May we be proud of our Nicole, (born in Hawaii), but continue to shine light on Australian science and discovery. I love the sunburnt country, a land of untamed imagination.
And an end to all that
These five hundred words get harder to write each day; surely I cannot be running out of things to say already? The problem is that I have too much to say; so much I have been carrying unsaid which now fights to be the first story to be released.
What I am certain of is that today is the time that there be an end to all that: all the distraction from what I don’t want to know any more.
I choose to write. I choose to write as more than just an outlet for my angst or my latent creativity, I choose to write because I am a writer and writing is what I do. But if I am to write, to do writing, then I must stop doing what I am not being. I am a writer, writers write. I am not anything else, so I shall no longer do nor seek those other things.
Better than focussing upon what I am not is attending to what I am. I enjoy writing and I shall do that, and let everything else fall away: it doesn’t matter what it is it matters only what it isn’t.
I know what I want to write about, but I wonder if it all comes across as a little self indulgent. My first foray into publishing under my own name was not as well received as my extensive work under pseudonym; but then I wrote those stories under very different circumstances. I shall rewrite Malcolm’s story as suggested by one of my critics, and I shall write in a better frame of mind and for a better purpose.
I also know what I don’t want to write about, so I shall indeed stop researching such things.
“A memory is never finished as long as you are alive”; well that’s the case according to Sunset Boulevard’s Jesse. Maybe only God has the capacity to forget entirely upon request, but I can choose not to remember. I am struggling; not only with the 500 word challenge, but also to move my writing beyond where it was most comfortable in 2007 because I can see that it was heading into a dead-end. Today I am trying to write about not writing about what I no longer wish to write about: a circuitous argument if ever there was one: not a lost cause, but a foolish endeavour, as foolish as the original endeavour had been. I don’t want to drop out of life and the world, I have things I need to be doing, but I am struggling today with pressures from all sides.
How can I run the race and win the prize if I can’t even get onto the blocks? Sometimes the race is not to the swift but to the persistent, I shall put it all down to experience.
Wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the nightmare I’ve become.
It ends now.
What I am certain of is that today is the time that there be an end to all that: all the distraction from what I don’t want to know any more.
I choose to write. I choose to write as more than just an outlet for my angst or my latent creativity, I choose to write because I am a writer and writing is what I do. But if I am to write, to do writing, then I must stop doing what I am not being. I am a writer, writers write. I am not anything else, so I shall no longer do nor seek those other things.
Better than focussing upon what I am not is attending to what I am. I enjoy writing and I shall do that, and let everything else fall away: it doesn’t matter what it is it matters only what it isn’t.
I know what I want to write about, but I wonder if it all comes across as a little self indulgent. My first foray into publishing under my own name was not as well received as my extensive work under pseudonym; but then I wrote those stories under very different circumstances. I shall rewrite Malcolm’s story as suggested by one of my critics, and I shall write in a better frame of mind and for a better purpose.
I also know what I don’t want to write about, so I shall indeed stop researching such things.
“A memory is never finished as long as you are alive”; well that’s the case according to Sunset Boulevard’s Jesse. Maybe only God has the capacity to forget entirely upon request, but I can choose not to remember. I am struggling; not only with the 500 word challenge, but also to move my writing beyond where it was most comfortable in 2007 because I can see that it was heading into a dead-end. Today I am trying to write about not writing about what I no longer wish to write about: a circuitous argument if ever there was one: not a lost cause, but a foolish endeavour, as foolish as the original endeavour had been. I don’t want to drop out of life and the world, I have things I need to be doing, but I am struggling today with pressures from all sides.
How can I run the race and win the prize if I can’t even get onto the blocks? Sometimes the race is not to the swift but to the persistent, I shall put it all down to experience.
Wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the nightmare I’ve become.
It ends now.
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