Consumed by Fear, he Stood as Still as the Dark Night above Him – Dead Deer

Fear. Fear is still holding on a little, I think.

Shame, shame is still holding back empathy.

Guilt, guilt is a broad step on the road forward.

Release, release is not possible, not in this world.

Dark night, a dark night hovers all around, here the sky is big, and the blackness is heavy. The dark, noiseless, night find even itself oppressive. It presses its weight down on to the day, the shadows stealing what was once light; a brightly coloured joy transformed into a menacing series of greys. A figure waits. A figure waits beside you. Still. No sound. With the blood pounding, your mind racing, you hold yourself. Still. Hold yourself, hold your breath. Do. Not. Breathe. The figure is motionless, yet its very presence is as a looming threat. You cannot, will not move. Not even a sigh. Wait. Wait until that other entity moves on. You are scared. So scared. Lost. So very very lost. The beast, whatever it is, will not steal your last breath. You are determined of that.

As you stand there, without the slightest movement, you are not yet aware that your last breath has already been taken. Hold it just a little longer now……


Today I wrote from 21:32 to 21:42. I was prompted by ideas here. Myy other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Deep Down in the Dungeon … – Dead Deer

“Make not your thoughts your prison” –  Antony and Cleopatra

I thought I was free. I was fooling myself. The small clarity I had gained merely allowed me to see the nature of the dungeon I am trapped in with greater ease. My attempt to escape led, as always, to being once more imprisoned in my thoughts, to be ever more shackled to this misery.

Darting around once more in circles, every point blocked. Each dead-end shooting me on to the next, ever quicker, whirring around and around. Eventually I come to a cycle when I can see a way step off this brutal treadmill. Please no, not back in that room.

I designed and curate a dungeon of my own, deep down in the worse corner of my infected head. It is a loathsome place, small but magnificent. All the hatred and disappointments and anger get garnered and carefully placed there. It should be a healthy, cleansing and cathartic exercise. It is not. The inhabitant knows not of its existence, nor of their place in it. But it is here with me, constantly. Part of what keeps me in the prison of my thoughts. Stuck.

Today I wrote from 23:49 to 23:59. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Slated For The Shadows – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 21:20 to 21:30. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

So the sun brings us life, it brings us joy, and it brings us warmth. But, as Larkin notes in The Whitsun Weddings, it also brings us shadows, and brutally robs the interest from anything outside of it’s all conquering gaze,

“At first, I didn’t notice what a noise
    The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what’s happening in the shade,”


But what of interest takes place in the shade? Nefarious things stereotypically, dodgy deals, threats and murder. How evil are these dark recesses, yet  they exist only because of the sun.

Blame the light, not the dark.