By the Bench

​Moving from bench to bench in search of nothing, allowing things to slow down for a bit. 

On the phone with a friend, meeting other friends by chance. Others keep us grounded in reality. They pull us back down to earth when our thoughts take us a little too high in the air. 

Of course, people come and go from our lives as they must. Although perhaps we always have the people we need when we need them the most, it is too easy to be ungrateful for the others in our lives. 

It starts to rain a bit, but just a light pitter-patter. Pieces of ink swell and dance upon the loose scraps of paper I strategically placed in my jacket pocket for situations such as these. 

This all takes me back to something original, to how things used to be—not so much nostalgia, but a reminder that some aspects of our lives remain unchanged amidst the change. 

My friend tells me about this day and this life in a way that redeems me, the listener. How quick we are never to allow ourselves to be bored and to be together with others.

To be a little bored with others—that is the real charm of the people we have.

Because at some point, the mask of a useful and self-preserving persona really must slip off, even if by mistake, and we are left with the space between words, not feeling the need to say a thing.

Of course we need to talk and listen and enjoy the business of good company, before a true shared silence can occur. Before a good and restorative boredom can overtake friends.

There is a real sense of peace today that I can't seem to shake. Indeed, the best things always seem to come when we least expect it.

Often we are most deserving of grace when we feel as though we are least deserving.

I have been experiencing some anxiety recently, although rather than dissociating, I’ve been trying to feel it completely, to let it run its course, so to speak.

It is uncomfortable at first, but after the discomfort comes some kind of internal certainty that the problem at hand is resolvable.

We are not meant to worry so much. 

Yesterday, rather than losing my sporadic mind in the mess of anxious activity, I allowed myself to tidy up my room.

It is true that when our physical surroundings are messy, it is very much an expression and representation of the mess within.

Our internal worlds reflect as much in our external situation as much as the world imposes her conditioning on us.

I hear the birds from the park over the phone with my friend. It reminds me that life is good and can be seen to be good if only we are willing.

My room is clean and tidy, so now my mind can be too. So I can wake up and have a fighting chance at fulfilling the aims of the day rather than being bogged down. Isn't that interesting? 

How we can get terribly bogged down sometimes. How we can approach the day with a sort of internal certainty approximating insanity.

How restorative it can be to do nothing rather than something. Then, in the stillness. Then in the quiet. We can reorient in a better and more life-giving direction.

By The Pond

​There are a lot of people walking past. I recognise some of them, but it is unlikely that they should see me. I never forget the people I meet. I might not remember their name or occupation, but their signature remains burned into the fabric of my shaken memory.

I want to say something about those who come by again and again in this pressing, this passing storm. I want to speak of the folly and of the brilliance of this crowd. I want to have something of merit to say, but I only seem to have something to say about myself. How narcissistic, how perverse of me, only to have a self-focus. Yet I seem to have found sense enough to forgive myself.

The music plays in my headphones. I'm completely alone, and yet I'm not lonely. I wonder if I have simply become bored of my loneliness or fed up with my internal conversation about my loneliness. Things seem to get better when you don't expect them to be good. Is that being realistic or just hopeless?

Yet there is nothing more hopeful than to carry on living, no matter what it might look like, no matter how it should feel.

To be recklessly in favor of life, not because it has some purpose that you can conjure up in the unforgiving center of your mind, but because purpose is purpose enough—not to dance alone with those untrustworthy phantoms we call dreams, but to live, to see, and to listen.

It is true that the stories we tell ourselves have a profound impact on us, but what about those quiet moments where we cannot find the story? When the push and pull of the everyday embrace seems to hold us just enough to bear the sadness of some deep, untouchable sorrow, do I fancy myself to become or at one point have been broken and mysterious? Am I eccentric? Of course not. There is nothing going on with me that isn't going on with someone else. I guess I just have a harder time making peace with it. My fault, no doubt.

But why do I believe—or rather, why do I blame myself? Perhaps that is my demon for today. I can ask the Almighty for a response with all manner of words and deeds, but what is that worth without an honest response and movement of the heart?

It comes back to some kind of question I didn't know I was allowed to ask: How do I wish to feel? How do I wish to be? What do I want? The selfish, selflessly selfish question, that vibration of no sound, the rumble of life from the depths of an ocean heart—the price of life's spice.

I don't like what I am saying, or perhaps I don't like the way I said it. There is something within me directed towards the negative with undying certainty. How can I correct it? Can I correct it? Should it be corrected? Is there anything to be corrected?

Is anything correct? Is there a question? If so, what is the answer? Do answers come from within or without? The music plays regardless. Words hold an empty purpose, yet they plunge beneath the surface. They overcome a lazy cursive. People pass by as they should, as they ought to do, as they must.

Buildings stand and waters flow, but what does it show? It shouts to me, it screams something that cannot be overcome. It tells an indifferent story of times lost long ago, times that stay today, times that lay the way for what exactly? For completion of some grand project? Some interminable embrace? Some narrative of the soul yet to be told? Yet to be pulled and scraped and collected from the fabric of the mind? Some striking pose which carries a boring message home where it belongs?

Hair flows and glasses glisten, laughter overpowers electric audio signals in bursts and cracks—too human, too natural for the noise-canceling neural network to restrict. Stopping by the pillar to exchange details for another day that will never come, looking out at the pond and its blinding reflection of brilliance, forgetting that this is the last time. Let it shine, let it be brighter than ever before. Let it sing a song, and let it be out of tune. Let it be crooked and dishonest while it is honestly so.

White shoes and neatly kept beards, cigarettes and jackets, hoods up and hoods down. White shirts tucked or untucked, messages left unread, messages left on read, messages left, messages forgotten, messages lost. Stolen phones on mute and loud, all the same. Craving for fame or a reason to blame, trying to outdo and overcome some stubborn shame. Lame, tame, what is my name?

Morning Routine

Trying to get my morning routine sorted out so that there is a sense of consistency in my life.

Can't seem to ever get it quite right. Can't seem to do what I am supposed to do at the appropriate times.

Eating breakfast is one of my struggles at the moment. I don't think I have ever made time to eat breakfast consistantly.

I have also given up fast food for lent, as it was becomming ridiculous in terms of how much and how often I was going for these binge meals.

Still, I know that with some perseverance I should be able to get the morning routine a little better and with time my life ought to improve.

I don't believe my life will ever be fully optimised but at the bare minimum I can look after my body it ought to make a difference.

About to drink another coffee, stimulants make me feel relaxed. Undiagnosed ADHD...

What is interesting is that I often skip breakfast because there are more important things that I know I need to do and my brain can't quite seem to prioritise the basics like going to the bathroom, drinking water and food. Although in that dehydrated and tired state I can hardly produce high quality work. Then I am often so distracted that I get lost in some task that has nothing to do with what I set out to do.

Now as a more experienced human being I am wondering if an element of routine and getting the simple things right will actually help me get more work done in a more timely way.

I have had to humble myself to the process in order to bring about this positive change.

Granted I am only two days into the eating breakfast agenda and by all accounts todays breakfast was partly a failure considering it consisted of shortbread and two custard doughnuts. Still, it is progress.

I wonder if I should go for a walk through the park while it is such a nice day. Often I wait until it is dark before I finally get myself organised enough to get outside. Although it's not like I am lazy, I just can't seem to align my activities properly with my situation.

I do find it easier when I have somewhere to be at a certain time. There is nothing worse for my sense or prioritisation when a shedule is not imposed on me from the outside.

Having said that, I do love following my own schedule.

I can't really go for a walk because I have left all of my laundry until I was going around commando yesterday in swimming trunks. So now I am on my third load of washing and hoping for the best.

May this be a good day, regardless of my disordered interior world.

Deepest Darkest Fears on Saturday

Sitting in the kitchen and talking about our deepest darkest fears.

My deepest darkest fear:

"That I might take myself too seriously" - Dan 2026

What do I mean by this?

I mean that sometimes I find myself all too worried about this, that or the other... I feel as though I am troubled and broken more than is reasonable. Yet when it really comes down to it, things aren't so bad.

Over the years I have learned that positivity is as much a choice you make every morning as it is a result of your life situation.

"Don't think" was what my old boxing coach would say when I was in the ring.

He was right about something. "Just box, don't think" he would say. On the surface that may seem counterintuitive but it works. Something about it works.

Becuase before you have a bout the training is already done. Typically you have already run the hard yards and now is simply the completion of your hard work.

Having said that I was rarely as prepared as I should have been.

The point is that when someone is trying to punch you in the face you don't have time to think, instead you need to rely on your instinct which has been honed by your training.

In the middle of a fight thinking is something approximating worry. It isn't helpful to worry. Better to act and trust your gut.

"Don't think" feels like a solution to my tendancy to worry too much about what people think of me. Then in that worry comes a tendancy to take myself too seriously and put on a more professional act for the world.

But it's better not to think. It is better not to worry. It is best not to take yourself too seriously.

But why is that something I fear? Why is that my biggest fear?

I guess it's because there is some part in us all that is original, that is unique and is in some way good. We are often punished by the world for being ourselves.

One solution is to blend in and just act like everyone else.

Something about this eats at you from the inside. Somthing about this draws you away from the life you are destined to lead. Something about acting how others want you to act and taking yourself a little too seriously corrupts your soul and goes against the simple spirit of life.

Nothing terrifies me more. I should rather be messy, unsuccessful and an all-round good person that is real and genuine and immersed in life.

Obviously seriousness has it's place, although there is something about being "too" serious that scares me.

20th February 2026

Hanging out in the Library. I have dropped out of my university course but it is great I can still use the facilities.

Decided to make a blog where I can post whatever whenever rather than working towards my degree in computer science.

I left my MSc half finished to do teacher training. Then I realised I didn't want to be a teacher. Now back doing computer science. I am terrible at coding and don't even know why I am studying it. Don't know why I am doing anything to be honest.

Find myself wandering aimlessly sometimes, although sometimes that aimlessness too has an aim of it's own. Almost always a means to avoid doing my work. I am lazy and don't do things properly. I don't like doing work until I am doing it, then I like it too much and loose myself to it.

Started doing therapy to work through my troubles. I'm not troubled enough to feel as though I need or deserve therapy. Yet my life is messy enough at the moment that I have saught it out as a means of securing a good future.

Try to stay positive I tell myself. But I tell myself all manner of silly and unuseful things. Hoping for a good day and a better tomorrow. Then I will write my self-help book.

I drove to the library today and I feel as though I have been robbed of something divine which lies along the paths between home and here. The ducks. Quack quack. Music to my ears.

Thank you,

Dan