A rebel without a clue.

Down went my sack. And quickly was made the bed. So I will leave on Thursday. I've never been to Alicante, except during a dream (perhaps a nightmare)? This room has only four beds so I expected hassles. This was not to happen as all the beds are on their own and have curtains for privacy and to bring Wednesday to a close in darkness. This evening I have seen the route taken out of Alicante so I'm sure that's it for, God knows, how long? And it does as I'm sent, like all pilgrims, out of the darkness into the brightest light  But should I stay or should I go? I will sleep on it. It's not a race, but certain things must be in place before I stubble off ... Or do they need to be? Hanging about for a weary body? It's always falling apart now so ... I will sleep on't! *** This morning I've battled with an over warm room until I couldn't take anymore. Too many Amontilladoes and the heat drenched me, dehydrated me and gave me a slight headache. By 7am I th...

This morning I decided to reduce the dosage of SNRI as I do feel calmer with this new antidepressant - which I believe I've been prescribed at least 6 months - going from 50mg up to 115mg and now reducing it to 75mg. Counselling (Emotional Support) with Marie, once a month in The Light Surgery, is also very helpful as we just talk about whatever has been on my mind and I feel our conversations have a point and not too random, even for me, or going over the same old shit. That's the key I think to personal mental freedom. It's obvious that the answer to my problems is letting the past go and to stop worrying about those things entirely out of my control - which almost everything is? In my mind, as I try to meditate, be present or be still, I can feel this pressure not willing to just go. It literally feels like something is pushing back against my attempt at being here at the point, the threshold, the tip of the arrow, in the moment, the golden forever, which is the complete...

Leeds airport is fairly silent this morning. Contrasting quite with Leeds city centre and that rush to clock in. Dropped my bags in the oversized section: 8.6kg. This time no "emergency" sleeping backups. Last time round, between Bézier and Lourdes, I carried around two kilos extra for no reason. And I returned the book I was reading, "In Praise of Slow", to Wetherby Library yesterday: I found the author quite an Ego and super middle-class: once or twice he got me, but mainly I was rolling my eyes at his constant name dropping and feeling he didn't really know that "slow" is at every level of Being. On Monday morning I saw Marie in Emotional Support for our monthly counselling session and we discussed the book by Carl Honoré. At that point I wasn't about to ditch the book, but on the journey over to Wetherby to visit my mother and catch up with Lola, Hungarian Vizsla, the book was mired in these very middle-class suburban, urban gentrification stor...

Leaving Leeds on the 757 "flying tiger" around 8:51am... Need I say more? Brief visit to the Pret on Infirmary Street to eat a little. It's the worst time of day to check in here as all the flow of white collar workers ramps up as they scurry to occupy the desk and answer emails, mail, mobile and phone calls; call meetings, go to meetings. "I won't be able to print any receipts" the guy says to every customer. "White filter, flat white, mocha ... Any hot drinks. To go. To stay. It won't be long." These barista are robots. They never change their tone or make statements in anything other than monotonicity. The lines of customers towards the door shuffle forwards to face the music, but they really are not here; with blank gaze and a brief glance they do a one eighty and retreat to the chain and ball of their postgraduate existence. BPP offers gold plated dreams and old school tie launches bamboo handled umbrella into the sullen grey sky, heading ...

Silent ancient woodland. Next to the ruins of a Castela. Distant dog barks, cockerel and jet plane. As I stand still bird calls become apparent. Sweet chestnut trees are also endemic up here: they must grow slowly too as lichen has spread densely populating the bark in variegated shades of green and Moss lingers by their bases. Over one hill of 500 metres I've another valley to come down to. The first instance of another hazard on this meander: tics. Huge too. Got to it just before it hooked in. On second thoughts I noticed small wings on these tiny beasts, and I'm sure tics don't have wings being essentially an arachnid with eight legs! A quick search on Wikipedia tells me they're Deer Keds or deer fly which means I'm less afraid. Both hills done in around four hours! Nearly noon. Bit peckish: grab some juniper berries and hang on a bit longer. I hear voices ahead!

It's a full week since I set off back to Leeds, Wetherby, and the other world which pains me, and already my plans are to leave it once more. More walking because I am forever walking. So it's Sunday and I'm going to be quiet and composed all day in preparation for a full working week with Lola in tow. *** A trip to Harrogate on terribly bouncy vintage x70. It's all holes and draughts. Lola yawned all the way: but she's never cared less about the transport we're in. Yawning is a sign of stress: or so I've been told. But I wasn't enjoying this rickety bum bruising nonsense either. So we hoped off before the Showground proper. The driver was whistling tunelessly all the way in so I was relieved to hop off near The Travellers Rest and, obviously, Lola ceased yawning.

Am I a simple man overwhelmed by layers of bullshit or am I so arrogant looking down at everything I see as layers of crap? The wound runs deep, but the middle ground is not going to heal over the gap any day soon. There is nothing here and still I hope that there is. Along Boar Lane the buses run east and people go towards the station or away. What is this I see? It leaves me tedious. A suit, a hi-visibilty jacket, old and young black lady and white woman, father and son, girl with Caffe Nero in hand. I've half a mind to head to the Angel Inn and speak to someone as it's hardly probable in Tapped as they're more interested in burning pizzas. Number 444 flies eastward to Wakefield: now that it's a depressing town. Boar Lane? Imagine it when the hogs ruled out here? All fields then and no manmade cliffs. When I look up at five stories I feel we've constructed a wall, a canyon, a chasm: a gully where the sky is so narrow that heads are bent against the drizzle.