Edit Censor Discretion

John Brogden was hospitalised this morning. Warded because he aparently commited suicide last night.

This comes as part of a domino of political embarassment.

First, John got tipsy and made mention of another politican's wife labelling her a "mail-order bride". Bob Carr is that opposing party leader's name and Helena Carr is an asian lady.

So follows John's resignation as NSW Liberal Party leader and his subsequent embarassment and the eventual medical condition.

This is the case of prying ears and the observing public.

Does this affect me? Not one bit. I don't really care. But it seems tonight's proceedings is a metaphorical mirror to the plot here.

Perhaps I care too much. But community is overrated. Especially when you apply a blanket naivety over it. I can't help the fact that I am growing older beyond my years and regretting parts of it along the way.

Someone sensually caressed my bum and called me a homo to my face in the parade of a game today. I noticed my own profanities and realised it has been my fault. I should have quit while I'm ahead.

Why am I still hanging out with this crowd that is only bringing out the worst pre-puberty kid in me. Which is why I have been drilling at the same spot for the last 4 years even though I uprooted.

Sometimes it's not the geographical move that matters. My heart and community needs to change.

I had noticed there was something that needed to change. I needed to change heads. I needed to go where prophets fear to tread. Yet I am still loitering around the same self serving inward looking crowd.

And I even care too much to even say the honest truth I know. I cared too much and explained too much. Said too much when I should have edited it away. Stayed too long when I should have used discretion. It's all my fault and I need to move away. I won't apologize, I don't owe anyone anything. I just need to get away from these games I've been playing like a boy.

Let the pheonix rise from the ashes. Yes pick that homo reference there. Take it, take it all. I don't fucking care.

Stretch

Like a band around the neck, overstretched, suffocating the victim to the death toll it wish it ever knew.

I can't sleep again. This merry go round steps up the ladder to the attic the place I contemplate the screwed up job someone didn't quite finish.

Sis told me of the news from afar off. News of a broken man lying in the cold urn right next to the ashes of my grandma. It was 2 weeks too late and the procession had already played its last note, packed up and gone home.

She also suggested it was a waste of my time and youth. This struggle and hand to mouth slavery.

She doesn't understand. And I'd perform surgery if I could to make her understand. But some of us never have the gift or sometimes called curse. A gift can be a curse or a blessing. A unique vision that could destroy the way you look at the world or levitate you to the next level untouched by mere mortals.

This life is a moment on lease. A life in time that will pass and no regrets will ever bring it back. It's not about me. It's about the generations after. What legacy will I leave them to carry on the dream and vision and burden?

Now I just wish I knew sleep at the right moments. Or maybe sleep is just a waste of time and my body is resisting. Let the revolution begin.