Circle.

The coldest shell contains the warmest center
An empty vessel creates the loudest noise
The strongest mind operates alone with everybody
The weakest heart beats with everybody alone
Easy times come hard, hard times come easy
Pain is reality, pleasure is perception
Life is nothing like a box of chocolates
Death is life without a box of chocolates
Creation is born from destruction
Destruction can only be understood through creation
You only help the ones you love
You only hurt the ones you love

Lee.

Ways To Live.

Dance without forcing rhythm
Forgive without being forgiven
Walk without pause in refrain
Talk without words to explain
Think without wondering why
Fight without fighting to try
Smile without seeking a meaning
Dream without consciously sleeping
Scold without acting too stern
Teach without forgetting to learn
Sing without echoes of sound
Fly without leaving the ground
Live without construction of walls
Love without fear of the falls

Lee.

Mind The Heart.

The mind speaks the language of our words.
The heart speaks the language of our soul.

Within us all they exist, and in general, smoothly trade a host of minimal decisions they face throughout their existence, in acts of diplomatic regulation to maintain each individual body which carries them. However, when those intense, history effecting choices arise - which neither are prepared to lay down their guard for, the relationship between the two becomes tumultuously hostile; and problems develop from basic issues, to all out battles.

The mind articulates words in attempting conversation with the heart. As it rationalizes excuses in justification of suppressing the hearts desires; "it will hurt the machine which carries us, leaving them open to all elements of pain, attack, or even capture." "It serves no purpose, we must close it off". "Don't worry heart, I will give you one of the major ones, eventually". The heart, however, communicates using an ethereal soul; therefore is unable to understand both the language of the brain, or its pragmatic sense of logic. All the heart hears is a mixed up jumble of bizarre tones, attempting to overrule its wishes; it knows its desires are pure and honest, but seems unable to enforce its point to any effect - no matter how hard it tries.

As these two dominant powerhouses create conflict over a battle for supremacy, the surrounding elements of the kingdom they fight within begin to erode, yield under the pressure of maintaining such a battle, and eventually - if no form of agreement is reached, collapse. Unfortunately, the carrier of these two organs has spent so long listening to and being taught power in the sights and sound of words; a clever action of the mind - they have come to both trust and rely upon their messages, they are no longer aware any other form of connection exists. They sense it, feel it, and are compelled to trust the silent screams of the heart, but more often than not choose in favour of the mind; the robotic computer system which overruled its initial creator. The mind wins and grows a little stronger, the heart loses, and the light glows a little dimmer.

The moral is simple; while it is often both useful and necessary to fight with yourself -  and there really is no other battle in life but this one. When it comes to full-out internal war - everybody loses. And when it comes to intense desires of the pure variety; while the heart doesn't mind the mind, the mind really doesn't have much time for the heart - only a moment, here and there.

Lee.

Back To Black.

"Amy Winehouse: 1984 - 2011"
"You cannot judge someone, until you have walked a mile in their shoes."

There are only two options in how anyone can view another persons life; One: we judge them based on our own morality, principals, and conditioned notions of personal reality. Or two: we understand every solitary story of the human race belongs to its own book; the pages articulated by the actions of it's sole owner. In doing so, we respect the knowledge we are not them; and therefore have no right to pass judgement on decisions they make which only effect themselves - as if we are an omnipotent force who has any right to...

I write this article on discovering the sad news singer/songwriter Amy Winehouse has been found dead in her Camden home, at the tragically young age of 27. Initially it leaves me angry; not because a woman who carried such exceptional talent is no longer with us, or knowing she must have faced extraordinary pressure for so many years; which none of us could ever comprehend. It is more from the amount of judgement I read upon her life, by people who had never met nor even knew her; as if she were a one-dimensonal black and white figure from a poorly written slice of film noir. 

I can understand the frustrations of seeing a lost and somewhat innocent soul destroying themselves in a world of heavy drugs and alcohol, or even wasting her prodigious ability. But how many people can truly understand how isolating the pressures of fame are, or how lonely, empty, disillusioned, or just plain tired of life she may had become; finding solace in escapism - as millions of young people do and have done since the dawn of moonshine. We never knew her past, her darkness, or how her eyes saw the world in the harsh glow of a morning sun, so what right do we have to pass sentence; not just on her, but anybody famous? I am tired of those who judge others through the distorted veil of their own disdain; as if they carry the rulebook of life, handed to them by God himself.

It draws parallels to Kurt Cobain; the lead singer/songwriter of grunge band Nirvana, who also passed at the age of 27; after fighting depression, drug problems, and a chronic stomach ailment through most of his adult life. I always thought the guy was and still is perpetually misunderstood; his dry, ironic humour being taken as serious, his sensitivity being judged as pathetic, and sense of human empathy profusely ignored, purely so media types could take potshots at those who find life so fucking awful to exist within, they try to escape its pain through substances; as if they intravenously inject heroin with a smile upon their faces.

Another soul has left this Earth, way too young. Another tortured artist to be condemned today, and revered a couple of decades from now. Leaving a collection of timeless music, misunderstood interviews, and revisionist biographies by people who never really knew her, looking to cash in on her both her name, and her death; acts much more heinous than merely being a good soul lost in a bad drug addiction. I am sorry to hear she has died, as she was one of the very few artists of my generation, who seemed to stay true to how they saw the world - regardless of the force thrust upon her; that and she had the unique voice of a weary yet soulful angel.

More than anything, I hope she never felt alone in her life. But it seems the more you understand the nature of life, the more you understand how very few people actually do. We all deal with the trials and tribulations in different means - some people write, a few dance, most construct a veil, and a tragic few become lost in a culture of drugs. Amy Winehouse experienced a life very few will ever understand. You don't have to like what she did, or how she lived her life, but remember one unquestionable truth; you never walked a mile in her shoes... or wrote a masterpiece like Back to Black.

If you enjoyed this article, CLICK HERE and Like my Official Fan Page

Invisible Angels.

If a fallen angel ever arrived from wherever angels fall; and needed to discover a human soul pure enough to help them return home, they would never carry the physical appearance of the socially defined beautiful woman, sharply dressed gentleman, or even a naive child. By all accounts, they would likely attain the manifestation of a bland, nondescript, lower than average in looks and style, aging male or female; the kind who cannot be forgotten, for they are hardly remembered at all.

The reason is simple; beautiful women are treated like royalty by men, and passively envied by women; guys dance for their acceptance, and women aspire the attainment of their aesthetics; in order for the same men to dance in the same way - unaware it only leaves these women feeling more objectified than before. A man in a suit is instantly perceived as mighty and successful - even though anybody can purchase a suit for as little as thirty pounds; thus affording a possibly of both genders bending to his will. And a naive child is full of the joys and wonder of existence - and every one gravitates to a being who holds the true essence of God inside of them. These are all subconscious acts - mixed in with the evolution of human psychology, and primal notions of our survival instinct; serving the self, not the soul.

A true saint who deserved the knowledge of aiding the angel, would need to be one of the genuine few who help this supposedly worthless person - even in a fashion as minimal as holding a door open for them, saying hello, or wishing they attain a pleasant journey through their day. To do so carries no ulterior motive; it is an act of trying to make another person happy. It can be argued these acts take place to supplement the well-wishers internal being, but this is cynical, and suggests all action is inherently selfish - and there are too many accounts of sacrifice for me to believe it entirely true. And, in silent awareness that social determination dismisses their value as much as it exacerbates the other three, why help them anyway?

This is not to suggest an attractive woman, suited man, or child cannot be angels; by all accounts, discovering the soul within these manifested beings is a different challenge altogether - one where it would take a potentially arduous process of breaking down barriers of psychology, reaching the real person inside, then working an understanding of desires, attributes, and deeper core, and in the child's case, having to tread very carefully so as not to distort their development.

The paradox remains, however, that should the looker or the sharp dresser be true angels, they may become so jaded by the human experience, treating them in a way they know deep down they have done little to deserve, over the unnoticeable strangers of life, or even become seduced by their new human powers of external association - they may eventually forget they were angels at all - leaving them lost for all eternity...

Lee.

The Cloud.

Before the age of seven, beyond a few vague sights which echo deep from within, I have no conscious recollection of life. I cannot express any aspect of this period, because I attain no recollection toward how I was or who I was. The only certainty is I was quiet in learning, happy in play, and enjoyed watching Thundercats.

Come the age of eight, I maintain vivid clarity of every year which has passed since. It was 1989; the year in which my parents separated, and the family home split into distant fragments. I view it as a metaphorical mirror, shattered into hundreds of shards and resting all over a dusty floor; everyone too jaded and disillusioned to collect the pieces, aware even if the mirror was glued back together - like a glass jigsaw puzzle, the cracks remain apparent for all to see, and the reflection showing a hundred distorted images of the same person; none of which a true representation of the eyes gazing back.

I am aware you cannot change the past, only the way in which we view it. To live in the wallowing self-pity of a time in which I lacked a maturity, power, or understanding to effect a situation driven by such emotional force, would be both regressive and pointless. Yet still, ever since this period, I have lived with a consistent grey cloud lingering above my head - created through arrested development, then developed through a form of arrested creation; at least, in an emotional sense.

It is the type of cloud you see on an overcast day, moments before the rain comes crashing down. Sometimes my cloud produces heavy rain, other days it grows almost black and produces thunderstorms. Now and again a small ray of sunshine peers behind it. On the rarest of occasion, the cloud allows the sun to bask in the rays of its full spherical glory. Most days, it is simply a melancholic, passively dissociated cloud; probably missing all the other clouds - and wondering who they protect.

Sometimes I am angry and shout frustrated expletives at it - wishing he would take a leave of eternity. Other days I embrace it - thanking him for protecting me from mans ruthless nature, and natures ruthless man. The majority of the time, I simply hide the cloud from everybody, beyond the select few I gauge enough trust to allow to stand underneath it beside me. It is almost like my cloud affords me a paradox, in that I am only ever happy, if I feel somewhat sad. It is not the way many people would wish to live their lives, which is understandable. But for me - much like an inability to stop thinking, I just do not know any other way.

So I embrace my grey cloud; he is my friend. He reminds me I am human, mortal, fragile, and oversensitive to every last aspect of life which flows around humanity. I have tried to thicken the skin, darken the soul, switch off, stop caring, and just turn the heart down to a silent, placid humming sound - but I can't do it, I don't have it in me to stop feeling. I go back to being eight years old, I believe I wanted to understand, but could only do so through my own emotion. There were feelings flying all over the place, so I constructed a grey fluffy pillow above my head. A misunderstood place where I could grow deep in emotion, rich in personal empathy, and strong in fighting the often hollow nature of conditioned existence from affecting my mind, body, and soul.

And now, many years later, the cloud once designed by a small boy; to protect myself from other people. It now protects other people from myself - and I am struggling to find a balance... I really should have built a robot buddy instead.

Lee.

The House Of Cards.

The King of secrets stands alone, resolute and well
The Queen of finding out his plans has found she cannot tell
The Ace of reason views no need to formulate a plan
The Jack of doubt lies in no doubt he'll never understand
 
The Ten of wonder wonders why the higher powers fight
The Nine of wisdom barely moves immersed in silent light
The Eight of passion binds them all his energies unbound
The Seven of misfortune is just hoping she'll be found

The Six of anger screams aloud distracting all ambition
The Five of thought considers how to dissipate derision
The Four of free eternity is ignorant and blind
The Three of forward planning motions back within his mind

The Two of hope's unsteadiness makes memories refrain
The nameless apparition has destroyed the secret game
The House of cards now fallen down defecting to the rule
The Joker smiles the deck he made was built upon a fool

Lee.

Because.


I awake because the sun rises over me
I sleep because the sun sets under me
I laugh because I secretly wish to cry
I cry because I cannot openly explain why I laugh 
I question because I am trying to figure out the answer
I answer because it may help me understand the question 
I dream because I believe in the world I live upon
I believe because I dream of a better world I live upon
I run because I desire to walk
I walk because I’m tired of running
I meander because I can barely walk
I stop because I know I will have to run again tomorrow
I look up because I see light in the skies
I look down because I need to remind myself of darkness
I sleep because the sun sets under me
I awake because the sun rises over me

Lee.

Across The Universe.

The human race fight; since the very first set of Homo Sapiens upped and left the motherland of Africa some 50,000 years ago - (Sorry racists, but you have to accept your ancestors were once upon a time, of black skin), and reached all corners of the globe to colonize as our personal creation. We have argued, bickered, fought, scrapped and disagreed over everything this world has to offer. In all these years, nothing has changed; beyond a slightly higher level of awareness to this notion.

We kill, separate, fight, corrupt, destroy, and induce all manner of negative global associations; religion, politics, money, culture, colour, class, looks, perceptions, morals, principals, values, ethics... the list is essentially endless. If the world creates it, people will find a reason to argue over it. Sometimes, disagreement and discussion is healthy; constructive, considered ideas always help each other, to help each other. The majority of times, however, these arguments are born from and lead back to the internal psychology of power, validation, and gaining a sense of love, purpose and meaning behind personal existence; a continuation of our primal logic to achieve these aims through attrition. It's as if we are so obsessed with feeding our own souls, we neglect to forget those whose souls remain as empty and fractured as the person who ruthlessly attacks it.

And here is where is saddens me to a point I could physically cry for our species; if we all just decided to say "you know what, fuck it... live and let live - you have your idea, I have mine. You tell me how you see life - I will listen. And in return, you can do the same for me. By the end, instead of drawing swords of repression and hate to feel deeper isolation and misunderstanding, we learn from each other. We view new ways of thinking and become more intelligent, validated and content through the process, and we move forward - not backwards." We are an incredible animal, we have so much endless possibility... but it needs to be based around positive association; you cannot walk along a broken bridge.

You see, this is planet Earth. It isn't really ours to lay claim to - and it never has been, much like the universe. We are taught we own the land to serve a system which is man made, but it's human propaganda designed to benefit the very few, while passively killing the many. This world is believed to be at the very least, around 5 billion years old, and our species have only existed in our current form for around 100,000 of them. And us as solitary beings, receive a mere 80 for our pleasure - even then, this is only if nature is kind to you. We fight and war over where to place the small pieces of a billion piece jigsaw puzzle, yet never consider to take a look at the whole picture on the front of the box; a picture that is so fucking beautiful it's ridiculous... you have to see it to believe it.

So in respect of time, biology, nature, empathy, desire, dreams, aspiration, inspiration, education, and even suffocation - the question I have to ask the species which I remain a fully immersed, card-carrying member, is simple; to argue, hate, despise, criticize, and ultimately, judge... what good does it afford any of us? Can you imagine just how powerful and strong we could be, if we all decided to work together for a common cause?
We never meant to get it wrong, but somewhere along the path, life became clouded, and humanity lost its way a little. Somewhere across the universe, they are either laughing about the 'controllers' of this planet for missing the point, or crying - because, deep down, they genuinely believed we had it in us to achieve great things - I guess they if they did, then they still do.

We are the boy of the solar system who received the wonderful, mesmeric billion piece brand new jigsaw puzzle for his birthday... then ended up discarding the pieces and turning the box cover face down; spending the rest of the day sitting on top of a greying card inlay - never once turning the box over. Life is a gift, don't reject it, ignore it, or disdain it... at at least, try not to.

Lee.

Value.

I am running flat out on my feet in the heat of a warm summers day, five miles into an intense run. I am short of oxygen, sweating profusely, and suddenly overcome with desire to drink a glass of water. In the heart of this moment, the natural filtered liquid carries more value than a thousand bars of gold, a map to the elixir of life, or the ability to wipe my brain of all six seasons of Lost; affording me the ability to watch them all over again, unaware of the outcome.

An hour earlier, I stood alone in the kitchen. I had just eaten porridge and my digestion system was nicely full. 500 millilitres of water rested before me; glistening in the reflection of the sunlight within a transparent glass - a beautiful source of natural filtered liquid. And yet, I ignore the water, for I have no desire to drink it; by all accounts, I forget it even exists.

Within seconds of returning home, I swallow every last drop... no other glass of water will taste as satisfactory - not until the next time I go running, that is. Nothing has changed, the water is still water. It tastes no different physically to an hour ago, contains no extra fluid, and has the same effect on my body as it would have sixty minutes previous. And yet, psychology of the human mind changes everything. The glass became my own personal gold, because my body physically required it for survival. I finish the drink, I feel refreshed - after a quick muse upon this idea, I forget about water as a substance, element, or source of worth...

To me, the water is a metaphorical reflection of every last member of the human race; a banker has value when incarcerated within his bullet proof booth, when we need a monetary issue solved. Yet if we are unfortunate to stand before the potential of a physical battle, may not find his currency folding arms of worth, against those of a Bin-man who hits the weights on a regular basis. A young, healthy and dominant male, instantly attains value to his own generation; for social and replication purposes. And yet, to a 70-year-old man, he is merely a foolish boy, still to fully construct his own interpretations on the value of existence. This works as much as how a 40-year-old is an old man to a teenager, yet a young man to a senior citizen. However, should the old man need his roof fixed, or the young man need advice, suddenly there is value; determined by moments, not consistent design.

This works with every aspect of life. We complain in England about bad housing, cheap food, a useless football team, or inconsistent weather. Yet a child in Burkina Faso would welcome a solid roof over his head, three square meals even one day a week, his nation qualify for a World Cup, and enough rain to help the dying crops grows. Paradoxically, should England experience a national quarantine through disease, suddenly, Burkina Faso becomes another version of heaven.

Everything is relative. Truth is determined by both the needs of the moment and percentages. The next time you see a person, a place, or an item; which you may conscious or unconsciously deem worthless - remember, they may well be your next glass of water, during a hard run on a hot day...

If you enjoyed this article, CLICK HERE and Like my Official Fan Page.