A rebel without a clue.

Broken am I? Thinking not I ... Blank is last - Zero, I am. Not ready for what is next. Fear, so therefore can't leave. Waiting with loose bolt This final thing, anthing, A hand shakes and nerves hasten I can not do; more and more fail. No more chance; Is this the meaning of knowing? I flapped my wings too close This time with such descent Burned it beyond connecting true How nothing thou art, being! Why am I suicidal yesterday, today and tomorrow Eleven bells: are those deep breaths? Shallower now No joy for me means Inside a mist stretches my head A thick fog reaching over my thoughts. Dreams only disappear with a Cold cloaked foe leaning me Flat.

From what was an insightful point upon the Way, I seem to be losing my vision; blinkered or blinded, my eyes pulled out; plucked, gone. What has disappeared behind is too far to reach back and grasp meaningfully for: the branch hangs above my change as the gravity of 'now' drags me along without options of escaping. Embracing this revolution seems logical but it's left me unhinged; more tenuous than at any time before: and I am liable to get my self into deep troubles if these remodelings can not be assimilated, without madness clouding every point of symbolic interest, then it will only worth ending it before it ends me. The Source is beginning to be revealed and I don't know how to dump the old and accept the new with finality. It is possible I've asked for some help before, but that was help to be accepted; now I need help to be something I should always have been. Before I scream forever, at never ever finding this limb that could pull me out another reality, ...

https://www.evernote.com/shard/s315/sh/3bac4119-33ca-4184-a4bc-fcfa7834415e/4c80907926b39ab1064b35c7dbbf687e Only: dread. The world I see is now, In the slow long heavily slumped Blunt march of a funeral, And overcast. A coffin, quite empty, is held; Too low. Unconforming. Not a thing good can ever come? If. What is spread refuses to die; Being toxic Is free without the casket. As the damp earth is pitched

First thing I know is at 7:33 am, my alarm was sent to the wrong day, so I have over slept and will be forced to miss breakfast - my host wants to be away by eight. Although it was cold in the room above the garage, I cherished the deep and restful sleep I managed in the warm (Autumn Snugpak) sleeping-bag (which I found in the spare room @ YHA Coniston Holly How Staff House back in October 2007);  Shrove Tuesday was indeed tiring here is Ash Wednesday. This morning, after one superior Aldi cafe I am being driven from rural to urban Picardie and now wait in a Presbytery for any advice from the priest to the various stages where it is possible for the pilgrim to sleep  - he is late, and I have third thoughts about doing anything in Amiens with it's fields of dead. The PR suggests the Tourist Info, but they'd be unhelpful about pilgrims, pilgrimages and refuges. Once I have breakfast I will depart.  There was a quiet simple openness in the Cathedral and above me the skies...