Bad Dog, Naughty Dog, In Your Bed!

Sitting down to write this piece I have a strange sense of quasi deja vu, in so far that in my I have already written a whole bunch of posts, whereas in reality I have written none.

Now that I come to write, I don’t really feel like writing about the virtues of patience and stoic thought. Nor an exploration into a conceptual link between macro economics and non-fungible tokens.

As someone whose brain frequently turns against them, blue screening like an overstuffed Excel Spreadsheet (Topical reference klaxon).

I don’t even feel like bemoaning the lack of understanding of how data works in this so called modern age for that matter. (I’ll save that for another day – you lucky people).

I have come to recognise that one of the causes of my brain shutting down, is a sense of being overwhelmed by uncomfortable and/or powerful emotions. These do not always have to be negative, there have been recent incidents whereby some surprisingly good news caused me to shut down, as seemingly I just do didn’t know how to handle such a thing.

And I retreat inside my mind, where I play out the plots and threads of what would, or might have happened in reality, each and every branch of decision considered, explored and to a degree lived. So to return to my three blog posts that do not exist, in my mind they have already been written and assigned to the done pile.

The blue screening of my mind is very useful, at least as an instant protective response – saves one from blubbering at the end of Return of the Jedi when Anakin’s redemption arc is complete, or when the last Mac N Cheese has been taken from the shelf in my local Tesco’s.

It also shuts down everything that my general sense of being relies on to function, my sub-conscious, my intuition, my inner self are all consigned to the jail within a Gaol of a white free protestant maelstrom (A favourite Jim Morrison Quote of mine). Left to languish, peering out through the iron bars, whilst the raven clawed guards of my ego govern and patrol against any glimmer of expression or feeling.

This leaves one in a difficult position, as to release the captives from their cell would requite facing the unwelcome feelings, like the face of someone you found in bed following a meeting on the mystery bus the night before. I know that I shall read this and cringe in the days and weeks to come, just as I still wince at the drunken capers of my youth.

Despite my best efforts, I am coming to realise that I may never be able to operate normally (what ever that is) when it comes to emotions which strike a particular chord within.

In such incidents, it is time to batten down the hatches, put everything back in its box (or closet). And then await for the Black dog to fuck off back into its bed, before I can allow myself to feel once again.


Internet personality who writes sometimes