A rebel without a clue.

Yesterday I walked up to Meanwood Medical Centre for the appointment at 8am with the hearing specialist: now I have to return in 4 weeks to get a hearing aid fitted ... After the appointment I decided, rather than spend time and money, traveling back into Leeds to come out again, that I'd walk to Oakwood from the centre along Potternewton Lane to Scott Hall Road, via Floral Avenue to Chapel Allerton, down to Gledhow Valley Wood and up to Oakwood along Fitzroy Drive to catch the X98. Rather than the £6, it would cost to get the three buses, I just spent £2. Getting off the X98 I saw mother and Lola going up York Road so I got a healthy welcome and her usual grin - from Lola that is! After lunch I did my usual meditation, but was unsuccessful as my mind was elsewhere, even though I had been on the go since 5, and walked 8 miles prior to 10am, something prevents me from the bliss I achieve. It's usually very easy on 42 Braine Road because it's so silent, but something was keep...

After the shallowness of the dawn the depths of the workday begins. Outside in the breeze: chilling, and in the full sun: warming, I am betwixt man and nature. Better in nature, but never entirely of it. Worse in humanity, yet never completely of it. Coffee and a chapter in the market place. I straddle two realms—concrete and chlorophyll—never fully claimed by either. The market place's coffee steam mingles with the breeze; me transient in both spaces. Workday depths pull, but sunlight offers reprieve. This tension’s a habitat. Not pure nature, not pure human chaos. Just me, sipping, reading, existing in the overlap. That’s enough? Enough isn’t resignation—it’s recognition. I am neither fully wild nor fully tame - is this my strength? The Market Place buzzes, the sun warms, the coffee steams. Here I am, threading through it all without belonging entirely. Is this sovereignty? Or a grand claim? Or the quiet truth of presence...

30th August 2025. Today was a day of healing. The morning began with a low drone of anxiety and the fatigue of a body that needed to reset. I chose not to push through, but to surrender to a greater sense of quiet. I made this day a pilgrimage of recuperation. I spent time in stillness, returning to my core, and I found peace in the honest chaos of my home. The kitchen became a sacred space, where I transformed ingredients into a supreme, nourishing meal. I tended to my sanctuary, finding a deep satisfaction in making the surfaces spotless. I thought about the path that brought me here, and I saw that the greatest victory of all was simply to return to this healthy place, sober and at peace. A bath in the dark washed away the last of the day's worries, and now I lie on fresh sheets, ready to finally rest. I did not lead my life alone today. I listened to what was needed, and now I am whole again. I am a wanderer who is prepared to wander, a wonderer who is at peace in his own cell....

The weight felt heavier than usual yesterday morning. It’s a profound and exhausting kind of low, one that seemed to run deeper than the usual rhythm of two mornings could clear. I kept thinking about how "gravity feels heavier" and the maddening feeling of slowly "going back to sleep." I felt like I was being led back into the cave, and I truly believe that sleep is a form of death—a blindness to what is real. ​I know I’m different. I’ve always been different. I’m a wanderer in a world that stays put. I was reminded of this again in the Mind shop, watching people shuffle through clothes hangers looking for being, while I stood there in silence. It felt like I was in a "confederacy of dunces." The conversations I had, like the one about Cambridge, felt so trivial, so pointless. I felt my energy being drained by meaningless chatter and distractions, especially from a gentleman who knew the train times but said "zero" of any real importance. ​It’...

I'm reflecting on yesterday. The world was at its most chaotic in the centre of Leeds, filled with what I saw as zombies and an egotistical protest. I walked through it, a wanderer among the crowds, but felt no part of it. I was a person completely on the outside, and it reinforced the feeling that my true essence isn't on display in this country. ​The chaos of the day led me back to my own long-standing questions about my family and their lack of understanding. I saw their constant projecting and judgement, and for the first time, I didn't blame myself. I saw them for what they are—incomplete people, trapped in a reality of their own making. ​This realisation was a powerful turning point. It allowed me to see that my own desperate search for validation was a kind of hysteria, the Ego screaming for approval. But in that moment, I found a profound truth: I am valid in myself. I am not afraid of my self. My worth isn't found in what they think or what the world says. ​...

22nd August This morning, from the comfort of my mum's Victorian armchair I have a new clarity. I’ve been reflecting on the nature of being, and the difference between spectacle and substance. We talked about Diogenes, the Cynic in his barrel, and how his was a life of performance. All spectacle, and no true sufficiency. I saw in him the same emptiness I’ve felt from too much television and too many stories, those "black holes" that pull you away from what is real. But I realised that I am not seeking a life of spectacle. My journey is the very opposite. It is in the quiet sufficiency of this moment—the breeze from the window, the chatter of the crows, the simple fact of being here. My past, and the pain from my family, is a part of my story, but it does not define my present. The true value is in how I choose to respond to it. I am not a pilgrim searching for a holy land; I am a marvelling meanderer, a pérégrinant on a long, winding journey. I am not Latin, but a wandere...

​Here I sit, a peregrine at rest. The chaos of Albion Street and Boar Lane unfolds before me, a beautiful and complex expression of a unified reality. The bus arrives 11 minutes early, and I am not disturbed. A small piece of grace, a reminder that the world does not always conform to our ideas of it. ​Eighty days. I survived eighty days of what I called hell, a period that felt like a fifth of a year. The numbers are just a story I tell myself to make sense of the journey, but the truth is in the living of it. I am a pilgrim, a philosopher, an observer. I am not defined by what I know, but by my willingness to live in the mystery. ​And here, on this quiet bank holiday, with a ticket I didn't need in my pocket, I am simply being. The journey to France begins soon, but this moment is a destination in itself. I am not on the floor, but in a freshly made bed. I am here. ​I am not sure who I am, or where I am going. But I do know one thing for certain: I am a peregrine, and this is ...

This morning, in the pre-dawn quiet, I began a conversation that was not with another, but with my own truth. I started with a quiet frustration at a world that feels so obsessed with boxes and spreadsheets, where the rich, chaotic truth of life is flattened into a sterile, perfect narrative. I realised my loneliness wasn’t a failing, but a consequence of living without the stories everyone else needs to feel safe. We talked about science and philosophy, about the block universe and the theory of everything. I saw them not as truths, but as beautiful, complex stories humanity tells itself to banish the dark. My own truth, I realised, is that the universe simply is, and in that simple fact lies a quiet sufficiency that needs no grand narrative. I am a pilgrim on a journey, but the pilgrimage is not to a destination; it is to the "quiet sufficiency of the momentary being." I saw that I was not fighting against physics or philosophy, but for a truth they had left out. The most p...

The day began early, at 4:30 a.m. with the quiet brewing of coffee. The morning was cool and still, a quiet, sufficient peace. All the while, the bread continued its own unexpected journey on the counter. The yeast, a quiet, gentle chaos, bringing all the separate ingredients together into a unified whole. It reminded me of the beginning of the Hobbit; how a great adventure can start from something so simple. The air now holds the excellent smell of its journey almost complete. Later, on my walk to Wetherby, the path presented a test. I encountered three dear souls, each in their own way a prisoner. It was a melancholy thing to see. I met a mind of pure logic, whose questions were an attempt to define and categorise a reality that simply refuses to be pinned down. Then, I saw a soul of constant opposition, whose life is a restless, unending conflict with the world. And finally, a spirit so afraid of all that it cannot control that it lives a life defined by its fear. I love them, and i...

The day began with a wave of anticipation, a feeling like a distant star's light drawing closer, a true Doppler effect. It's getting more intense and is resolving into a quiet happiness. Then came a moment of perfect synchronicity in Boar Lane. A meeting with an Argentine man, whose surname was Beja, while I was wearing a badge from Beja, Portugal. A beautiful moment of serendipity that echoed the kindness of two guys on a rainy day who gave me the badge in the first place. On the journey itself, I fed the suffering city pigeons with leftover rice—a small act of compassion that is all I can do, and all that's in my capacity. The charraban ride was a bone-shaking "sharra-bang" all the way to Wetherby. The journey led me past the beautiful Rowan trees opposite my flat, a shame their berries aren't directly edible. And now the destination is here. A quiet, thoughtful day awaits with Lola, Mind and my mother. A perfect end to this leg of the journey.

The morning was spent in the thick of it. Not on the path, but in the stillness of a coffee shop, wading through a sucking stinking sinking mud that has been my companion for a very long time. I know I am in the wilderness, but the paradox is that this place of my choosing, this natural habitat of the hunter-gatherer, is also a place where I cannot connect. I am an exile who has chosen exile. The very sanity I have found on this journey—the belief that my path is true and the world I left behind is insane—is what makes me so isolated. The clarity I have about my contradictions, the Fatigue I feel from fighting the deeply flawed conceits of my own body, is not a sign of my failure, but of my strength. The peace I am to find is not waiting for me at the end of the road; it must be found right here and right now, in the very mud I am trying to walk out of. It seems I have to learn to be a happy Sisyphus, to find dignity in the struggle of the climb, even knowing the stone will roll back d...

The morning is clear and warm. A good day for a journey. The past few days have been a study in contrasts. I've witnessed the frantic dance of the world, the preening, the performance, the silly game. But in my own life, there's a different rhythm. A quiet one. I was stung, and it led to a quiet act of compassion. I helped the wasp that had stung me. A small act, but a significant one. My mum asked if I killed it. That's the difference right there, isn't it? The difference between vengeance and peace. Between order and chaos. I choose chaos. I tried to play all the games once, but they only made me unhappy. Now I'm on a different path, a pilgrimage to France. A journey towards my one Self. I am walking away from the hemorrhage of modern life, away from a world I don't understand. I am a loner, but I am not alone. I have my one Self to walk with. And in that, there is a profound peace.

The pilgrimage continues, not in a distant land, but here in Harrogate. I caught the bus, a new kind of path, and set out to find a different kind of truth. My feet led me on a search for the town's oldest church, a quest for a foundation, much like my own search for the start of my journey. The path eventually brought me to The Stray, to a place of an old chantry chapel and, finally, to the very source of it all: St. John's Well. I found it, a beautiful gritstone pavilion standing quiet and dignified. But there was a pity to the discovery—the well itself was dry. Yet, in that moment, a deeper truth revealed itself. The water is gone not because the source is gone, but because its function has changed. It is probably still feeding the town's water supply, no longer a public spectacle but a quiet, unseen sustenance. It is a perfect metaphor for my own pilgrimage. The source of my peace is no longer in the public, frantic motion of walking to France, but in the quiet, unseen ...

The morning began in the pre-dawn, a sentinel at your post. You watched as the sun began to rise, turning off the light just before it crested the horizon. In the quiet, you heard the chorus of pigeons join the chatter of the crows, and you reflected on the stillness of the holy hocks, still a vivid pink. You noted the movement of the outside world, a car passing up York Road, and the people on Braine Road beginning their day. You found yourself in The Combination Room, starting a new chapter with the sentence, "One of the sad things about a body of men is that it is capable of turning into something like a body of sheep." A walk to a new, quiet place followed. On that path, you stepped through the current of dead fish to reach the other bank, a determined move forward. It was a morning of quiet accord, a beautiful chapter of The Ever-Interesting Topic. You are on the path, and it is a good thing.

It is a new day, and the journey that began with a quiet "phew" has unfolded. I opened a window to hear the morning, a motorbike a small, quick echo on North Street as I sat above the road. The sun rose, and it was orange, pouring from a break in the clouds. I baked sweet peppers and a marrow, a sprinkle of tajin, a grind of black pepper, and extra virgin olive oil. I left the poppy seeds, jam sugar, and cider vinegar in liquor to wait until I return. From my cell, I watched the sun move south, knowing I would soon have to move my sofa to keep it in sight. I reminded myself that I am as old as the universe, a truth of the Unity Theory. I reflected on the post-war ethos, on the bankruptcy of Britain, and the setting of the British Empire's sun, and the rising of a new one. I clipped alcoholism on Tuesday a week ago, and yesterday I took the clippers to my head, a brave act of transformation. I don't feel bad. With the kitchen tidy and my outfit on, I ate my leftovers f...

(Submitted in an alternate reality to Richard Pryor, BA Hons. Third Year, 1995)... The traditional academic view of Shakespeare’s Hamlet posits it as the pinnacle of existential human inquiry, a text that masterfully delineates the agony of a consciousness grappling with the fundamental questions of existence. The soliloquy, "To be or not to be," is universally lauded as the ultimate expression of the human mind’s capacity for self-reflection and tragic indecision. This paper, however, posits that such a reading is fundamentally flawed, as it remains confined within a Cartesian dualism that Hamlet, and indeed much of the Elizabethan canon, ultimately fails to transcend. Rather than a testament to the heights of human thought, Hamlet’s struggle is a profound, albeit brilliant, portrait of the Ego's weakness—a philosophical cul-de-sac from which a truly awakened consciousness must necessarily depart. The tragedy of Hamlet is not his indecision but his unwavering belief in a...

The morning began in a quiet stillness. Lola breathed in her satisfied sleep, a deep peace after our shared outing, the first of its kind since her operation in February. The rain came, a gentle rain that mirrored the restlessness of my own mind, my ego stirring with thoughts of breakfast and the day's plans. But by letting go and accepting the moment for what it was, the rain subsided to a gentle sigh, and the quiet returned. I saw the past clearly, a period of "blindness" that I am now leaving behind. It was a relief to know that I have stopped drinking my life away. This newfound clarity led me to reflect on my journey and the journeys of others. I saw in Gollum's desperate love for his "precious" an allegory for those who are lost to their own attachments—to Possessions, to Identity, to Ego. But I am no longer lost. I have found my path. I know now that my steps are going the correct way. The future is no longer a distant thought, but something instantly...

The shakes are with me today. It's a real and quiet thing, a part of the isness of this journey. The body is speaking, and I am listening. I was reminded again that everything has its place. The broad bean stems from the harvest are slowly returning to the earth, just as a stale piece of bread has a new purpose to serve. Nothing is ever truly gone, just in another part of the cycle. My mind went out into the chatter of the world, to a rumored eclipse that wasn't to be. It's a testament to how easily people can be led to see with a blindfold on, to choose a single candle over the vastness of the light. The date of the real eclipse is set in the stars, a truth that doesn't need our stories to exist. My mum thinks I don't have empathy, but my path is to see the truth without the emotional labels. The real sorrow is to not see the holiness in every day, and the isness in all of it. It's all real, but none of it is.