It's just gone 6am and my head and heart are in Sarajevo, it's 1992 and I'm with soldiers and journalists attempting to find the best way to inform the outside world of what is going on. But as often as we sleep, our minds are dangerous, confusing things and its priority list is oh so wrong.
It's just gone 6am and I have awoken during a shelling, my body is covered in sweat and my head is swelling. Every movement my body makes activates the glands further, but outside the sheets I am cold. There is no middle ground. My heart sinks, how have I slept badly again.
It's just gone 6am and I'm not sure I'll sleep again. My concern grows as the ripples at play can flow and turn into great waves. I have been begging my body for peace, for recovery but it continues to abandon me. Why should I ask so much of the temple that should be here to care.
I feel alone, so desperately alone. I thrive for connectedness and feel my aloneness stronger when I believe this connection is fragile. I think  I've always felt alone. Has it always been this? I never cry. But tonight I do. I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed - And that makes me feel even more alone. I feel worthless, I feel unlovable, I feel like a fraud.
I try to speak. I want people to listen but the words fall, caught in an endless void between my mouth and their ears. Why does this happen? What forces are at play that have created this situation?
Why do I always feel like I'm about to be left behind? What is it about me that isn't good enough? Why am I even writing these words? How has it come to this?
At all times I feel fear. So often am I waiting to be right and so often is my righteousness rigid in my chest: a chaotic mix of ego and despair. My tears are drying, but I wish they wouldn't. I don't believe they have said enough to me. This stubborn concrete shell is overcoming my little self. No more, it says. I want my voice to be louder.
Do you ever slip out of consciousness and find yourself unnervingly peering into a reality different from your own but one that feels just as equally important and integral to our life as the one we believe we live in? My chest hollows, and my breathing is unstable, if only for a moment, as I look across a field of grass. I can hear as the dark green trees sway in the wind, their leaves in synchronicity; swaying gently and singing. The houses, more than likely American in their shape and space, stand recognizable. I am heading towards one, I think it might be my home. I’m young again - Perhaps a teenager. I notice my skin is soft and hands unworn. All of this during one breath, and in the same moment little countless bumps illuminate my skin and a cold ray lines my back. I shake it off and the houses dissipate. The sound of trees replaced by the murmur of the bar. Is this just the sickness? Is it bringing my dreams forward to challenge my notion of reality or consciousness? This happens often and it feels like I am crossing planes. The forcefield between dimensions is weak and, I certainly wonder, is the part of me already existing in that dimension having the same moment as I am here, in this bar? The young me walking towards that house, listening to the trees has also shuddered. Has perhaps stopped in his (or her) tracks and a thought has flickered – invaded – our security of self. I don’t know and don’t think I can be sure. All I do know is that it is not goodbye, simply a so-long for now.
The shadows are coming.
An old machine sits patiently in disrepair on the floor by the window. One of the wooden panels is ajar and the early morning light has bled through and is now creeping up the side of the machine, like it does every day and has done for as long as the machine remembers. Where the light meets the metallic components of the machine it’s warm and before too long it will be hot.

As routinely as the sun itself rising, the bird will soon appear, like it does everyday and has done for as long as the machine remembers. It will fly to the ledge of the window, keenly scan the room for any danger, before drifting down to the floor by the machine where it will stay collecting its warmth.
Words when spoken can act as life-support. I’m told, often, ‘He’s an enigma – He’s mysterious’ at first these words sound like compliments, they make me feel unique: somehow special. The more I think of these profound statements the more it seems, to me, that I am on some kind of psychological shelf floating in a jar next to others though they are of course unlike me. Still, the words continue, and I speak a story I have told many times. Only this version skips over the indulging, self-congratulating speech I would often pursue – Why does it sound so arrogant and distant to speak facts? Anyway, we soon share similar sentiments for our psyches and it’s like a switch inside of my mind is flicked. Through the eyes of another the light comes on and I am seen. I am seen.

To have someone older than my father say he would love to come back and sit and talk about things with me is overwhelming. To feel that connection. I speak about the desires and wishes I have for my future and craft and to see someone’s face light up, as if they too, have seen a distant version of themselves in another. This here makes me understand sonder and understand the complexities at play in our worlds and our minds. I am someone desperately trying but failing to navigate this twisting labyrinth that is unfolding deep with every step I make forward, but forward I am going and failing is part of that journey. The feelings of loss and disconnection that are so prominent and vivid right now are acting as fuel. I am simply refuelling. The next steps are going to be some of the biggest I have taken. And I need to be ready.
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