So here I am in White Spot, writing on the tablet in the space between my therapist appointment and one with my GP.

Just overheard : “Triple O sauce all pver my face…”

I don’t have a lot of time, so most of this will likely be written elsewhere. Right now, I am just waiting for the check. I have around ten minutes before my GP appointment.

Not that he rewards punctuality,He is constantly and reliably running late. My appointment is at 12:45, and a voice in my head says that I should just take my time and show up at 1 or something.

But for me, punctuality is compulsive (compunctual?) and so I have no choice but to try to be on time for things, regardless of the fidelity of my counterpart.

Still, if I am a minute or two late, I will do my best to not give a fuck.

Therapy was good. I feel great forces moving in the shadows of my mind. It makes me feel a little spooked out, even hau ted. It is like a great wind is rising within me to presage a mighty storm.

I am kind of looking forward to the storm. Maybe it will cure this terrible ache inside me, like a toothache of the soul.

Some time=”time” later=”later”/Some

Okay, now I am waiting n my GP’s office for Dog knows how long.

It is not just an ache. It is a deep longing, a yearning that makes me feel like I am a plant desperately leaning towards the only light around, as feeble and lifeless as that life is.

Why is my star so cold?

I feel like I am heading into a period of serious healing. I feel more cohesive and whole than before, but the healing cannot complete until some very big injuries are cleansed and healed. Until then, the wound cannot close and I cannot be whole again.

But it is not something I can do consciously or deliberately. That’s the rub. I cannot just tackle the problem with my mighty mental muscles and solve it. It is not that kind of problem.

And I am nog used to that. I am used to problems I can solve via analysis. In its arrogance, that mighty and ferocious barbarian that is my mind tends to assume it can beat all comers.

But this is a problem without substance, and neither warrior nor wizard can stand against it.

Only the oft-maligned mystic can travel the roads to where the madness grows, and seek the key to its undoing.

Only the mystic has the knowledge and sensitivity to understand the pain that drives the madness to extremes, and the compassion to strive to ease that pain, and free the beast.

I have never trusted my mystical side before, being all rational and logical and stuff.

But Fruvous the mystic might be the only one who can save all the rest.

All I need is a little faith.

But faith is for the ignorant . Real men use knowledge, or do without… right?

And the poet laughs.