My Turner's Hooch

Turner whistles his way to work. The sun is shining, still cold though- but he feels warmer as he walks. Maybe the wrong coat... but after work it will be cooler. Probably COLD. Turner stops whistling and says 'Hello!' to someone. I don't know who it is. I don't know everything do I? He stops outside a big block of a building, dark grey-blue marble. Big, big wooden door. Entering a code- beep beep beep beep- Turner thinks about how lovely his lunch will be, special pack-up today! A very beautifully made sandwich. This is one of Turner's ways of worshipping himself, of letting Turner know how much Turner loves Turner. Turner is not mad. He knows that he is all of one piece and that by self-enveloping this one big piece; the only piece really... for, without himself how would Turner's world exist?!- and, after all, the world is only the world because Turner can feel it!... where was I?- Oh yes, Turner knows that by surrounding himself with his own love and support, not to the point of ignorance or arrogance, strictly and pointfully never that, that he stands a very good chance of being strong enough and certain enough to withstand the suffering of life. He takes time to admire the fact and act of life. He allows himself to feel glad of things, small and large. He allows himself to feel sad about things, small and large. Now Turner is in the building, he has walked down four corridors and unlocked five more doors... now he whistles again. Twenty three pairs of magnificent ears prick up, twenty three glorious beings sit or stand to attention. Turner bellows a joyful 'good morning!' and a gorgeous howl of loyal and godly love fills the air.

When It.

I try to follow the advice that people I respect give to me. And i'm simply mad about honouring my mistakes as hidden intentions. I'll quickly fall and worship anyone who challenges me. I want to be happy, or- I want to be content. Because I don't believe that Something will make everything alright. I think that I should be able to find contentment in being who I am. But, who am I? It's funny because although I ask myself that, I don't care who I am. Because. I can't be anybody else can I? My thoughts are a torture and perhaps this writing will occupy them long enough to give myself a break, make a run for it. I feel very sad when I look around. Somehow even looking up doesn't give me the same thrill it once did. Although looking down serves the blood in the same way; I am changed. Taking flight. I still can't think of it as transport. Not in a mechanical sense. Sometimes when I am walking I will suddenly have cause to look down, it's a long way- I feel giddy- I accuse my legs of failing me for three years... but they are as innocent as I am and because there's no justice... I have to get used to it again, to accept- to be blase- I now have to embrace or reject all the other walkers. I could ask my Dad 'why?' and he might say, 'Because legs is legs.'