Halloween

Today I'm off to Barcelona and then on to Paris. It's mid-term and I'm looking forward to a selfish trip away for me. I need to get away. Being back at work, busy weekends, the steady pressure of trying to keep together - it's a lot to deal with. I need to turn off. 

There are loads of occasions that are upsetting - I wrote about July and the weddings - but one that might not be obvious is Halloween. Liane loved this holiday. She loved scrambling a costume together from four different half outfits to become something mad-looking but unique. An evil clown or a bizarre pirate, never getting the outfit perfect but applying so much imagination and effort that it was aesthetically fascinating and well, endearing. She loved scary films of the corny dated variety. She loved young kids coming round to the door in Glasthule and asking them for a Trick before their Treat, her gentle demeanour warming up the nervy children. 

Last year one of Liane's best friends asked us to babysit her little girl for the night. We brought her house to house, met new neighbours, acted like parents, got mistaken for parents, got treats, made up tricks and generally had a pretty perfect night. I don't remember having that much craic, just simple honest and heart-warming craic, in years. We'd dressed up our house, left out sweets and met tonnes of cute kids.

It felt like what we'd be doing every October for the years ahead, her hand and my hand carefully holding those of our dressed up and wild little child...

Clinging on

Sometimes it feels like I’ve just one finger grabbing on to a thin ledge - holding the whole show together. The pressure builds and the finger slips a little before somehow a second reaches up to share the load. I still don’t fully understand where my strength comes from. I’m hitting hurdles, falling over obstacles and crawling across deadlines. One foot forward then slowly the next. It’s like a war of attrition only the further I go the little bit stronger I get. 

The past week has been difficult for many reasons - Lianes six month anniversary, another wedding, the tiredness that followed it and some pressure at work. Maybe the most difficult was the smallest thing - two phrases than came into my head that were so her and so part our every day life. Those little jokes that are the cement to your happiness, the glue to your togetherness.

"Hasta luego pego" & "deal mcbeal"/"ally mcdeal". Both mean nothing and everything. The fact I'm typing them through tear-filled eyes gets the idea across. I can hear her voice in my head singing them both to me. The first a little goodbye and the second a fun agreement, both backed up with a grin and the tone of someone smiling... 

Oof. This ones a tough one. 

Half a year...

Liane died 6 months ago today.

How is that even possible? What have I been doing all that time? How much of my life has she missed? How much of the life we had planned together have we missed? If she were here where would we be on that path?

I think of the plans we had, the dreams we'd nourished, the home we'd lovingly built and all that potential of our paired future... I think about all that a lot, especially lying in bed at night. It seems like such a waste for it to be gone, just like that, taken away. I feel so sorry for everyone and everything Liane loved who/that doesn't get her love any more. I miss her smile, her warmth and her touch. But more than that her strength, her reassurance and her encouragement. She guided me more than I ever knew. 

Today will be a blur. It started with a beautiful swim in the forty foot surrounded by friends and love. It was dark, cold, windy and yet serene. The sky was full of stars, the sun slowly edging up over the horizon and the mood warm. We played Don't Worry Be Happy and stood in a semi-circle facing out to the ocean weeping, smiling, hugging. It was another sad but beautiful moment to join the ever-increasing folder in my memory bank.

The podcast was released - I spoke about it on an earlier post. I had a listen which was odd and upsetting. I'm glad I did it and look forward to the feedback. I'm at work now, on lunch and after the afternoon I will head for the airport. The day will finish in Donegal preparing for the wedding of friends. Two wonderful people starting down their road tomorrow - a wedding Liane would have been so excited for. 

I'm scared to look too far forward. I'm dealing with each hurdle as it arises and getting through the worst of it in one piece. I'm working hard at life at the minute and learning, growing and hurting. To think any further than the next couple of weeks is frightening, but what will the next 6 months bring? To me? To my family? To my friends? Hopefully less pain, hopefully less pain. 

Meeting Róisín

A couple of months ago a friend of mine emailed me to tell me that she had been in touch with the producer of Róisín Ingle's podcast (Róisiín Meets) and that they wanted to get me on to talk about Liane, about my grieving process and some other topics. I read the email a couple of times and thought "I'm actually ready for this" but let it sit. I just wanted to be sure. 

Last week I went in to the Irish Times office, met the producer - a lovely woman called Jennifer Ryan, walked through the bullpen of reporters and into a small recording room where I met Róisín for the first time. I was daunted, nervous and uncertain. Quickly my fears were allayed as her generous and kind nature instilled in me some calm, even comfort. As an interviewer Róisín hit the perfect spot between keeping me moving forward and teasing out the deeper questions, and answers. I felt ready to open to her and to talk freely about Liane, my feelings, my thoughts and our lives together.  I left 40 sweaty minutes feeling relaxed and confident.

Today the podcast went live. I listened to in a mate's car sitting in 8am traffic after a lovely swim with a big gang. It was a tough listen, my own words making me well up frequently. The love we shared is something very special and I'm glad it came across.  I'd love her to hear and see all this. My life has changed so much - I feel I'm becoming more the person she dreamt I could be than the person I was. The person missing it all is her and that will hurt forever. 

On the 20th April this year, Mark Earley’s life changed completely. His wife, Liane Deasy, died suddenly in her sleep at their home in Glasthule Co. Dublin, from nocturnal epilepsy. He was away in Australia at the time. Soon after Liane’s death, Mark began a blog called There Are Words, which he says is an attempt for him to understand her passing, to share his grieving process and to find something in such a tragedy. Liane loved sea swimming and Mark has found solace in it since her death. He speaks to Róisín Ingle about that in this podcast. He also talks about Liane and the kind of person she was, how the loss of her is still so raw for him and what he does to try and get through it. https://therearewords.com/

Sadness

I was walking home from the Dart yesterday looking on Spotify for French music to play at a themed dinner party. I ended up on the Amelie soundtrack, an old favourite. It made me pause, the wind swirling around me - leaves at my feet, and think clearly of Liane's face. I could feel her with me.

For the second time in as many days my face crumbled, my hands reached for my eyes and I cried, in the middle of the street. The piano washed over me and my brain and heart despaired. Music is such an emotional force. I shuffled home and lay on the couch, not sure what to do. I listened to the same song again, drank in the sadness and let the emotions come.

What else could I do?

Another week...

Sometimes I say yes to more than I can handle. I want people to know I care, I "need" to be involved and I really do want to be kept busy so I end up doing things like meeting someone at 4pm knowing I have to be somewhere else (not nearby) at 6pm. I plan multiple, often relatively unachievable, meetings or events in small timeframes. (I call it time optimism). Liane curbed that instinct - she helped me to say no to things; moreover she made me want to come home more, both on purpose and subconsciously.

With that gone I am busy again. Maybe too busy, or maybe busy enough. Certainly very tired a lot so leaning towards the too busy side of things...

I just felt like sharing what I got through in a short space of time this week. It was frantic but it also felt good being around people and achieving things. I want my friends, and anyone else reading this blog, to know where and what I am at. So here goes.

  • I poured my heart and Liane's story out to Roisin Ingle for her podcast, Roisin Meets. It will be out on Friday October 20th. It was a daunting, challenging, enjoyable and satisfying experience. She put me at ease and let me talk. She asked questions gently and responded kindly. I left feeling I covered most things but left some things out in the adrenaline rush of it all.
  • I saw Blindboy of the Rubberbandits talk. He impressed me hugely with his open honesty around his opinions and experiences regarding mental health. If my students learned half of what he taught me in those 45mins they'll be better people for it. 
  • I met with an employee of Epilepsy Ireland to talk about what they do, where the money fundraised will go and if I can help further. Im going to be writing a piece for them and maybe talking on the radio about my experience and about Liane 's life and death.
  • I hosted a dinner party for 5 friends. It was lovely. 
  • I helped organise and supervise a 12 hour Sleep Out for TY students in my school. We spent the night out in the rain and have likely raised over €5000 for the Peter McVerry Trust charity.

Reading all that makes me tired. It was too much. I got to the weekend and was exhausted but full of love, inspiration and determination. I just need the balance Liane gave me...

A gentleman and a genius, with a huge heart

A couple of months back I received an email from Muriel Thornton, wife of Kevin Thornton, one of the best chefs in the country. I'd worked with Kevin a few years back. His son went to the school I work in and he'd come in and done a cookery demonstration as a fundraiser for a charity trip I was involved in with students in the school. Liane was in attendance that evening. The recent email was asking if we were looking to repeat the fundraiser - Muriel was emailing, out of the blue, to offer their help - and to check in to see how I was. They hadn't heard about Liane. 

Telling people for the first time is hard. It's hard for me and it's hard for them. Not just the news (as if that isn't enough) but the emotions, the tone, the words, the atmosphere - I often don't know what the person at the other end has been through or is going through. Everyone has a tough time in life - as Blindboy of Rubberbandits fame recently said at a talk I was at (post about that to follow) - "Life is full of inevitable pain".

So in my reply I told Muriel about Liane's death and I asked if her and Kevin would be willing to work with me for Epilepsy Ireland. I received a lovely email in return - heartfelt, kind and open. From it came a Cookery Demonstration night - Kevin came in to the school and put on a 2 hour show. He cooked 5 dishes including tuna three ways & an incredible plate of duck and showed us how brilliant a chef he is. Watching him work was breathtaking - the speed of it, the know how, the style and skill. There was so much going on at any given time both in terms of what was being cooked but also regarding the interaction with the crowd. Kevin is an entertainer - he's funny, charismatic, creative and smart and had the crowd in the palm of his hand. He's also inspiring - the speed at which he works - a manic pace - and yet coupled with a deft precision. I was blown away, much like two years ago. Mid-cooking he also found time to ponder about life, about the importance of giving and the transience of human existence.

I spoke on the night about what it meant to me - somebody I am only getting to know offering his time, his skills, his food and his heart to Liane's fundraising. It is humbling. It makes me want to give more of myself to others. It inspired me and for that I will always be thankful. Another piece in the jigsaw that's slowly building around me...

 

ps photos from the night are online here:

  • https://www.flickr.com/photos/gonzaga_college_sj/albums/72157686140952922
  • Read all about Kevin's latest business venture: Kevin Thornton's Kooks 

Five forty-five AM

During the week I had the most vivid dream about Liane I have ever had.

As with many dreams the exact details are blurry but it took place in a car with foggy windows and rivulets of rain running down the panes. I was in the front seat on the right hand side and she was behind me. We were talking over the seat, face-to-face. She understood that she was dead and that the conversation we were having was a rare chance to communicate. We got lost in each other's eyes, neither of us able to get words out to express what we were feeling. It was so very REAL. As in, she looked exactly as I remember, she felt the same as I reached out and took her hand but perhaps most difficult, she knew she was gone. She knew I was alone. She understood. 

"Tá mo chroí bhriste" I said. Those were the only words I said. I've no idea why - I'm not an Irish-speaker. I mean, I studied it, I love it as a language and have often wanted to re-learn it but why those words? Do they even make sense? I've never used them in my life. Her eyes welled up. Mine too. And then I woke up, in floods of tears. My brain realised it was a dream and I broke down, huddled into my pillow with my phone telling me the time was a quarter to six in the morning.

30mins until my swim.

30mins of broken sleep and heartache until another day starts, pushing me further from her. 

I wanted so desperately to remember each part of the dream but it was so upsetting. It's taken me four days to be able to process it. Think it through. Write down my thoughts. Share it. It seems like an intimate share, like something other people might hold on to but more and more when I wonder what to write here I really think that if even just one person reads this and it helps them then the share was worth it. 

What I'd do to speak to her once more...

"Do you see her?"

A simple question, asked by a close friend (of both mine and Liane's) out of the blue. "Do you see her?".

My mind span.

My heart leapt.

The familiar throat constriction and my two eyes full of tears. I couldn't reply. For the hundredth time since April 20th I sat looking at someone unable to talk. Luckily the company I was in understood immediately and we let the moment drift away for another day. 

Have I seen her? I have. I've seen Liane in two very different ways.

In the literal sense, I've seen her hair in a crowd. I've seen her style of clothes - those warm autumn colours and natural greens/blues. I've seen other people with her walk, her gentle bounce. I've seen her jackets pass me by on the street. I've seen people holding each other like we did - one taller than the other, hands connected and waists lob-sided. I've yearned for her so hard my mind plays tricks on me as I go about my life each day. 

In the ethereal sense (not sure if that's quite the right word but it'll do for today) I see her her mostly in our/my house. She permeates the place like a warm smell. Her belongings, my belongings, our belongings. She's in the teacups and the art on the walls. I see her in the random lidless tupperware and in the wine stained table. I see Liane at the Forty Foot - all shivers and grins. I see her hunched over a coffee and a paper as I walk slowly past the Alliance Française. I see her tucking into a Guinness at Grogans and not shying away from a full plate of food in the Corner Note (somewhere I'm utterly terrified of revisiting).

I see her in a decade of memories across a city we loved in and lived in together, side by side. 

So yes, I do see her.

And it hurts because it's not real. For all the belief systems, the hope, the pure stubborn yearning...the hard truth is that she's gone. I won't be with her again. My eyes won't connect with hers like they did. And that, well that, is really difficult. 

Another hurdle cleared...

At times writing this blog is tricky, in fact, quite often I find it tricky. There are lots of reasons - a pressure to express myself honestly and clearly, the worry that it could offend/hurt someone close to me in some way and maybe most of all, the fear of not doing someone as special as Liane justice through my thoughts and words. 

Today it is tricky because I want to write about how I felt at a wedding I attended over the weekend. I'm conscious that weddings are about two people - the couple getting married. They aren't about the families, the friends, the staff or anyone else in attendance. They are about two people in love declaring that love publicly, surrounded by those closest to them. That's why this post feels selfish. I don't want to take the focus off the wonderful couple from Sunday, but I need to process and I figured this might help someone else some day so here goes...

I'd thought very little before the wedding about how I'd feel at it. I love my cousin dearly, she's like a second sister to me, so my focus was on her excitement and the natural build up to the big day for her. I don't know whether it was through naivety or self preservation but I simply didn't
prepare myself for the occasion. It wasn't until I was sitting in the middle of a full row at the ceremony watching the smiling bridesmaids saunter down the aisle that I realised what I was about to sit through. That familiar tight throat began...

Our wedding was a day I'll never forget. The feeling of love and happiness in the room was so very special. We'd carefully planned the readings, the music, our vows and all the small details. I saw the same on Sunday - a ceremony crafted out of love, respect and warmth. It oozed happiness and joy and brought me straight back to Clifden on that day in July, over two years ago now.  I sat there listening to the celebrant talk about the beauty of marriage and what it meant to have someone for the rest of your life. I heard my cousin and her lucky man share touching vows about living long lives together. And I sat there, sandwiched between my siblings, my heart torn in two, my face scrunched up and the tears pouring. It's the hardest thing I've done in months. 

All that said, would I change it? Not for the world. I wanted to be there. I chose to be there. I could've not attended but the fact is I wouldn't have missed that wedding ceremony for the world. And, the positive out of it (aside from being there to share their day)? Well it's another obstacle faced and overcome. It's another experience that was difficult but that will give me strength. I've been to that part of my pain and I've embraced it and got past it. That stands for a lot for me right now. That makes me stronger. 

Brakes on

At the moment everything's moving so fast. Hours whittle away, days become weeks and weeks disappear into months. I feel like everything is on fast forward. I desperately want to be in the moment and feel what's going on but sometimes it's just too much.

I'm sort of lurching from one event to another - small challenges, big experiences - with an open heart and wide eyed. I just wish time would slow a little, let me catch up. I'm trying to stay busy, to keep me moving and living, yet I'm trying to make sure to process and talk too. It's pretty exhausting. 

Today I ordered in a hungover dinner from her favourite Thai restaurant. Our last order was stored on their website. Memories of the excitement she had every time we got takeaway and lay on the couch on Sundays came flooding in and with them tears, anger, bitterness... Why me? Why her? Why us? Nothing makes sense any more...

The Colour of Our Love

For our wedding day one of Liane's closest friends wrote a song for us. Miriam Donohue is a Dublin-based Galwegian with a stunning voice, a huge heart and one of the most honest & friendly personalities you'll find. Her and Liane were like crutches to one another - always ready to support and never found wanting. Their friendship was a constant, tested by time and distance, but flourishing still.

Miriam re-wrote the song for Liane's burial and stood at the grave in the sunshine that day singing through tears, her heart open for all of us to see. It remains one of the most precious memories, both from hearing the song whilst holding Liane's hand on our wedding day and from that beautifully sad day in Wexford. The lyrics are below. Thank you Miram x

===

Orange is the colour of our love, like a wheel thats turning

Like a moon so bright its burning, on a midnight bicycle ride

Yellow was the colour of your hair, like a bloom in springtime

Now you stole my heart its ring time, 

its the colour of our love

On a blue and crispy morning we climbed Killiney hill

I said will ya will ya Darlin, you said yes i will

And I gave you a blue promise ring, you said I understand

As I slipped it on your finger, we held each others hands

Silver is the colour of your hair, many years from now dear

But I don't mind at all dear, for its the colour of our love

Gold is the colour of love, as here we’re standing

See our friends and family smiling

at the colour of our love.

On a Blue sunny morning, a warm day in July

I said will ya Darlin, if you will so will I

We'll watch the people dancing, watch the colours spin

We’ll stay here for ever and watch the colours fly

The colour of our love

On a Blue and windy morningthe 20th of May

We’re all standing here together to scatter you away

And I thought that all the colours, they might fade away

But now I see you as a Rainbow and a Rainbow you will stay

Oh The Colours of our Love.

The Liffey Swim

On Saturday I swam in the Liffey Swim, an annual swim that takes place in the Liffey River that bisects our lovely Dublin city, alongside 400 other men and women. It was the culmination of a season of sea swimming and felt like an appropriately big occasion to mark how important my new hobby has been over the past 4-5 months.

The day itself was nervy and fun. Much like many volunteer run organisations the atmosphere around Leinster Open Sea swimming events is a warm and welcoming one. I've met some lovely people over the course of the summer/spring and am excited to be a part of it all again next season. Some of them knew Liane, some of them have never met her. It can be hard talking to strangers about what motivates me to swim - I don't want to upset people and yet I like talking about Liane and how she's changed my life so much.

The night out that followed was predictably heavy. I feel like lately there's almost a monthly blowout where I push the boat that little bit too far and pay for it the following days. My mind and body can handle it for now but I'm very aware of how unhealthy it is. The release is cathartic, the resulting fear, paranoia etc less so. 

Somebody asked me what my next challenge would be and it got me thinking... What is my long-term goal? What do I want out of the Epilepsy Ireland fundraising? How long will I push myself to organise events and take on challenges in Liane's honour? Is it honouring her? How do people keep moving forward when surrounded by such deep pain? What can we do to help others in times like this? Is this my life from now until I die? 

There are probably more questions for me than answers at the moment. I'll keep teasing them out - here and with friends/family in person. I don't know if I'll ever find answers that will satisfy my heart or mind but am not sure what else I can do but keep searching. 

Schwimmen lernen

 "In einen Meer aus Schmerz ertrinken die einen, die anderen lernen darin schwimmen" - Kyrilla Spiecker

Since Liane died I've been looked after by many people. Friends, family, colleagues, students, strangers and more. It's been a very humbling experience and one that's made me feel equal parts loved and lucky. I've grown closer to people through my grief - their support and love transcending my pain (even for the briefest of moments) and helping me find purpose. 

I can't possibly name each person or detail what they've done for me but one such friend sent me a message yesterday that gave me a much needed lift. Nici lives in Hamburg and is a funny, caring and very smart soul. She's been a rock from afar - always there to talk and expand on thoughts, share opinions, guide gently. The quote she sent me above fits me like a glove. It means:

"In an ocean of pain some people drown, others learn to swim"

Any swimming I'm doing is thanks to the many life buoys/rings I have around me. The constant help really means everything to me. Thank you all so so much. 

A gut punch

Yesterday afternoon I was walking towards Grafton Street with some tunes on and trying to make my mind up as to how I'd whittle away 90mins before shooting a gig. I paused, dug out my phone, checked it and replied to a few things from the side of the footpath. When I looked up I saw a pretty brown-haired woman in her mid to late twenties walking up the street, her eyes scanning the crowd. She found who she was looking for and her face lit up - her eyes danced and her smile spread wide. She walked faster towards her man and when she got to him threw her arms up around his neck pulling him tight to her. They stood there in a clinch oblivious to the world scuttling by. 

It was beautiful and it broke my heart. 

Back to work

After a few months off, this week I'm back at work. Back to routine, pressure, expectation and well, work. Having the long summer break has meant so much. It gave me time to face my pain and try to understand my loss. It allowed me space to try and start rebuilding and work out where my life now stands. I had the chance to travel and experience new things on my own (a tougher task than I had anticipated). But with all the positives came the difficulties - gaping open days full of fear and loneliness. A looseness and lack of structure that was as scary as it was unchartered. A relatively constant state of confusion, bewilderment and dizziness that made the simplest of tasks become some sort of obscure puzzle. The inevitable apathy - why bother getting up let alone getting dressed...

The first few days back at the grind have been good. I'm lucky to teach in a school with caring and friendly colleagues. I've been there for a decade as a member of staff so I know the place pretty well. It's been surprisingly nice to see the students again - while that might sound funny I mean it sincerely. There's something reassuring about seeing them again, taller and bigger but the same characters that left in May, growing and getting ready to go on and make their respective marks on society over the coming years. Like a sort of constant of some variety. 

What I've found difficult is the commute and the return to the empty house.

Commuting is a funny space - you think, you dream, you communicate, you listen to music, you read... I shared my commutes with Liane in so many ways - music, messages, phone calls, photos etc. It was part of our relationship - tales about the world spinning around us, laughing and teasing, making plans for our evenings and weekends together. Like many other things that is gone now, altered abruptly and without farewell. In lieu I have a choppy sea of thoughts and newly haunting music all the while heading beck to meal times for one and an empty bed. 

Routine can give you strength and structure but with it can come memories and melancholy, perhaps more then I anticipated. New steps like this aren't easy, I understand that, I just underestimate some of them and their power.  

MIA: 1 x companion

I guess I've always been with someone. In 6th year of school, for the first few years of college, for the next few years of after college and then Liane. I love the intimacy, the companionship, the sharing, the leaning, the being leaned on. I mean, what are we here for? To meet a soul mate and build a family was always one of my answers to that question. 

In Liane I'd found my perfect companion. Everything about her - I felt like a chancer of a lightweight boxer who'd tricked a title-winning heavyweight to dance with me. I was the cat covered in cream. We fit. I've spoken before about how people work together - you look across at how two bodies fold into shape together and marvel how they ever existed apart. That was what we felt like. Aside from that physical attraction and tangible matching our personalities seemed to complement and enhance. Our wits sparked, our philosophies flirted, our boundaries ebbed and flowed as our souls grew closer and closer. She became my best friend - loyal, loving, supportive, caring, intrigued and intriguing. 

Without her the world is so newly strange. There's so much unshared now. There's no more giddy texts to her about the funny sounding lady on the train or the odd colour of my chai latte. There's no clutching embrace after time apart or simultaneous sighs after long days at the office. It's lonely, and in an acute way I've never experienced before. Sure I can hang out with other people - and I do - but my mind often wanders and soon my heart follows. What I'd do for one more evening collapsed on the couch in a jumble of limbs... 

I don't know if I'll ever feel that sort of bond again. Part of me wonders if I'd ever want to and another part guiltily yearns it. As with so much of my life, confusion reigns and through it I stumble, "yearning to belong" as the Nick Mulvey song goes...
 

Just another day

I'm writing this from a near empty Dart train carriage on my way home from Killester to Glasthule. I'm tired. I've had a long and turbulent day, that in hindsight has been almost a perfect microchosm of my current life. I'm emotionally drained and ready for my bed. Soon I'll be waking up to do it all again...

So what happened?  

The day began well - a spectacular swim. A low ruby of a sun sat prettily over a pond-like sea, hardly a whisper of wind and a calm silence that makes you feel equal parts lucky to be so close to nature and utterly insignificant. We swam. We chatted. We laughed. My body was happy. 

I later met a friend for coffee and we spoke about Liane and how we missed her. Our emotions flooded out. It was lovely - two of us talking, crying, sharing and comforting. I needed it. I didn't know at the time but I needed it. I got home exhausted and cried more. Reading old messages, looking at old belongings - the wave had taken hold and I needed it to wash me to wherever it was going. I let it bring me deep and it hurt.  

Soon it was time for meeting another friend with whom I swim, usually longer distances. We met, chatted, drove and then swam. It was sunny and windy. My brain focused on swimming, on the current, on the new location and the pretty scenery. I felt free and alive, happy and glad. I met other friends for lunch then popped in to school to do some work.  I was feeling stronger and was pushing myself to get a lot done.

Suddenly I found myself involved in a tough conversation and the mood flipped. My mind changed. I needed to leave. I was claustrophobic and stuck. I needed out. It comes on so fast - the helplessness and the pain. It dominates. I left for the city centre, for fresh air, for my own thoughts...

Town was a blur. A confusing stepping stone to the next part of my day. I bought and shopped and wandered in and out shops aimlessly, unsure of what I was doing. My brain was fried. I ate and headed to play frisbee near Killester which turned out to be fun and a great end to the up and downs of the previous 14 hours. 

Everythings so different now. Here I am homeward bound to an empty house. Days come and go in different shapes and sizes leaving trails of pain and sometimes of joy. The complex rhythm of my new existence is an elusive beat, one I'm still chasing, yearning. Soon it'll be bed again and another chance to sleep and wake up for more of the same perhaps.