Big chunk of republishing

content/post/2018/01/lifes-a-scream/index.markdown

@@ -1,10 +1,17 @@
----
++++
-layout:	post
+title = "Life’s a scream…fear, joy or otherwise"
-title:	"Life’s a scream…fear, joy or otherwise"
+date = 2018-01-19
-date:	2018-01-19
+[[resources]]
----
+  name = "header thumbnail"
-
+  src = "**uc8AinGAZWhpsf52qNGlgw*"
-  ![](/img/1*uc8AinGAZWhpsf52qNGlgw.jpeg)Photo by [Cristian Newman](https://unsplash.com/photos/wGKCaRbElmk?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/scream?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)Life is just one long scream…literal or otherwise.
+  [resources.params]
+    [resources.params.meta]
+      creator = "Cristian Newman"
+      license = "https://unsplash.com/license"
+      sameAs = "https://unsplash.com/photos/wGKCaRbElmk?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"
+categories = ["life"]
++++
+Life is just one long scream…literal or otherwise.
 
 In the literal sense, we arrived screaming. We may well go out screaming. And lots of screams in between might be the mark of a life well lived, in my humble opinion.
 
@@ -29,5 +36,3 @@ Whether or not it is worth it is something I’d rather not think of because it
 Overthinking and the resultant paralysis is the enemy of progress and ultimately…fun. And what’s the point of life (there isn’t one) if it isn’t *fun *despite all the suck?
 
 Sod it. To live despite Life is the only way worth living. Live hard, and if that means living fast, so be it.
-
-  

content/post/2018/01/meeting-my-match/index.markdown

@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@ Pun very much intended. The fire metaphor for relationships suits me damn fine t
 
 > what happens when I meet someone who says “HELL, yeah! Let’s do it YESTERDAY!” rather than “No, that really is a step too far this time — even *you’ll* die if you do *that!*” ?We both agreed that meeting someone more than someone who was also on our Wavelength would be dangerously fun, emphasis on the danger.
 
-But as all Junkies know, all the best things come with a healthy dose of risk. What’s Life, what’s living, if you aren’t pedal to the metal?[^1]
+But as all Junkies know, all the best things come with a healthy dose of risk. [What’s Life, what’s living, if you aren’t pedal to the metal?](post/2018/07/chasing-the-edge/)[^1]
 
 So all in all, I think I *would* like to meet my Match. My other half[^2]. The ‘your crazy matches my crazy’ kind of person. We’d burn bright, if perhaps not for very long.
 
@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@ And she *wasn’t even* my Match.
 
 Wasn’t even someone who matched my crazy, not truly. Wasn’t quite a fellow Junkie. Wasn’t on the Wavelength, either. I thought she was all of those things.[^7]
 
-God only knows what will happen when I do meet my Match. If I indeed ever have the (mis)fortune of doing so.
+Gods only know what will happen when I do meet my Match. If I indeed ever have the (mis)fortune of doing so.
 
 The results will be truly **spectacular**[^8], that much is certain.
 
@@ -63,7 +63,7 @@ The results will be truly **spectacular**[^8], that much is certain.
 
 [^5]: Maybe I’ll tell the interesting bits of that saga sometime.
 
-[^6]: First love but not first girl…that was the first lesson
+[^6]: First love but not first SO…that was the first lesson
 
 [^7]: Through rose-tinted glasses, red flags just look like flags.
 

content/post/2018/01/not-a-morning-person/index.markdown

@@ -1,16 +1,23 @@
----
++++
-layout:	post
+title =	"I am not a morning person…and that’s OK"
-title:	"I am not a morning person…and that’s OK"
+date = "2018-01-11"
-date:	2018-01-11
+[[resources]]
----
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**BQafmY_l1bGn9B8pzaL5kA*"
+  [resources.params]
+    [resources.params.meta]
+      creator = "Tony Detroit"
+      license = "https://unsplash.com/license"
+      sameAs = "https://unsplash.com/photos/sZtmk410A1I?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"
++++
 
-  ![](/img/1*BQafmY_l1bGn9B8pzaL5kA.jpeg)Photo by [Tony Detroit](https://unsplash.com/photos/sZtmk410A1I?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/moon?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)Society is built for morning people. A lot of people swear by the first few hours of their day as their most productive. Many writers, including lots here on Medium, advocate an early rise.
+Society is built for morning people. A lot of people swear by the first few hours of their day as their most productive. Many writers, including lots here on Medium, advocate an early rise.
 
 But I say to hell with that.
 
 I am not a morning person and that’s okay. My best work is done not at the break of day, but as it draws to a close. The only hours of the morning I’m truly interested in — truly productive in — are those shortly after midnight.
 
-Sod 5am-7-am. 11pm-1am. Those are my hours.
+Sod 5AM-7AM. 11PM-1AM. Those are my hours.
 
 And that’s ok. As darkness falls, society slumbers…and the night comes alive.
 
@@ -20,7 +27,7 @@ Society makes it difficult, because as I say it is geared to morning people. Or
 
 Not everyone is a night owl, but that’s more than okay. Because it’d be no good if the world were just as alive at night as during the day. That’d steal the magic of the starlight. There is a stillness that accompanies the darkness, in which peace and power are found.
 
-Midnight workouts[1]. Midnight scribblings. Midnight living.
+Midnight workouts[^1]. Midnight scribblings. Midnight living.
 
 That’s me. If it isn’t you, ***that’s okay too***.
 
@@ -28,16 +35,16 @@ Fellow night owls, I salute you in solidarity. We work in the darkness and that
 
 Morning people, you do you. You work while we slumber and that’s okay.
 
-The counting of the hours is a human construct. Night and day are more tangible, but still ultimately constructs. Where possible[1], work when it suits you, sleep when it suits you. Do what you do whenever it is best to do it and as such maximise your time, for it is severely limited.
+The counting of the hours is a human construct. Night and day are more tangible, but still ultimately constructs. Where possible[^2], work when it suits you, sleep when it suits you. Do what you do whenever it is best to do it and as such maximise your time, for it is severely limited.
 
 At the *end of the day* — who gives a damn what hours of the day you use? Find your most productive time and unleash yourself in it. Regardless of it being societally acceptable.
 
-Seize the day [3]— it doesn’t matter in which hours.
+Seize the day [^3]— it doesn’t matter in which hours.
 
-[1] 24/7 gym access is made for people like me…
+***
 
-[2] By nature of the fact night owls and morning people cannot be always segregated, sometimes one or the other will have to adjust their schedule. Compromise, as in all things, is a key skill.
+[^1]: 24/7 gym access is made for people like me…
 
-[3] By the throat!
+[^2]: By nature of the fact night owls and morning people cannot be always segregated, sometimes one or the other will have to adjust their schedule. Compromise, as in all things, is a key skill.
 
-  
+[^3]: By the throat!

content/post/2018/03/never-thought-i-could-tell/index.markdown

@@ -1,10 +1,21 @@
----
++++
-layout:	post
+title =	"A story I never thought I could tell — a confession and a plea"
-title:	"A story I never thought I could tell — a confession and a plea"
+date = "2018-03-01"
-date:	2018-03-01
+[[resources]]
----
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**w_R2wGmaCKxDKn1yg17WKA*"
+  [resources.params]
+    [resources.params.meta]
+      creator = "Pelly Benassi"
+      license = "https://unsplash.com/license"
+      sameAs = "https://unsplash.com/photos/Hz1WQbHcXag?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"
+categories = ["me",  "cw"]
+aliases = ["/post/self-harm"]
++++
 
-  A simple heart inscribed in midnight black ink on a lover’s skin. An innocuous question heralding a world-shattering answer…   ![](/img/1*w_R2wGmaCKxDKn1yg17WKA.jpeg)Photo by [Pelly Benassi](https://unsplash.com/photos/Hz1WQbHcXag?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/storm?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)#### Content warning: self harm
+> A simple heart inscribed in midnight black ink on a lover’s skin. An innocuous question heralding a world-shattering answer…
+
+#### Content warning: self harm
 
 This piece has been written for a long time. And it has sat, like a lead weight, in my drafts for what feels like an age. I hope publishing this brings the release it has been promising, whisperlike.
 
@@ -16,7 +27,7 @@ This is something I never thought I’d be able to talk about publicly — t
 
 I never thought I could look my father, my best friend, my sister or anyone close to me in the eye and tell them this. For fear of what they might think. How they might react.
 
-Note: if you are close to me, please do not be surprised if I don’t want to talj
+Note: if you are close to me, please do not be surprised if I don’t want to talk
 
 Indeed, I still *can’t*. So I’m sharing this with them, and the world, the only way I really know how. The written word.
 
@@ -73,5 +84,3 @@ General attitude towards mental health **has** to change. Period.
 I’m sharing my story in the hope it will contribute to that. To the recognition of mental disorder being just as serious as the physical.
 
 *I don’t want to live in a world where people hate themselves. Do you?*
-
-  

content/post/2018/05/acidic-introduction-to-hate-love/index.markdown

@@ -1,12 +1,20 @@
----
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-layout:	post
+title = "An acidic introduction to hate-love"
-title:	"An acidic introduction to hate-love"
+date = 2018-05-14
-date:	2018-05-14
+[[resources]]
----
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**P0bYDW508YSd7zjaLeM9JQ*"
+  [resources.params]
+    [resources.params.meta]
+      creator = "Alexander Sinn"
+      license = "https://unsplash.com/license"
+      sameAs = "https://unsplash.com/photos/DX5r6BNoWVE?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"
+categories = ["me"]
++++
 
   #### Vodka-soaked and bleeding
 
-![](/img/1*P0bYDW508YSd7zjaLeM9JQ.jpeg)Photo by [Alexander Sinn](https://unsplash.com/photos/DX5r6BNoWVE?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/burning-feather?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)*Foreword: I’ve been gestating this story for a long time. Because the events of it transfigured me. And that’s why I’m so sure it is worth telling, even if objectively it may not be ‘all that’. Now, YOU can be the judge of that.*
+*Foreword: I’ve been gestating this story for a long time. Because the events of it transfigured me. And that’s why I’m so sure it is worth telling, even if objectively it may not be ‘all that’. Now, YOU can be the judge of that.*
 
 I fell out of my first relationship, rolled down several (metaphorical, mostly) flights of stairs and ended up straight in another. At the very least I should be glad I learnt all that I have as early as I have. Although it doesn’t seem to have done me much good — but that’s for another time.
 
@@ -20,7 +28,7 @@ Shortly after my birthday, I get a very vague text — something along the l
 
 So is she — she has this whole spiel about how she really needs to focus on work and whatever. Is also really broken up.
 
-I try to drown my sorrows in vodka and worse. The worse being [my experimentation with self harm](https://medium.com/frenetic-scribblings/a-story-i-never-thought-i-could-tell-a-confession-and-a-plea-472f4aa88bd6). Something I’m now clean of, fortunately. But that is beside the point.
+I try to drown my sorrows in vodka and worse. The worse being [my experimentation with self harm](post/2018/03/never-thought-i-could-tell). Something I’m now clean of, fortunately. But that is beside the point.
 
 A few weeks later, nothing much has changed. Besides a few interludes of…confusing signals. Shortly, she confesses to me that she still has feelings for me, and me trying to move on has hurt her.
 
@@ -58,6 +66,4 @@ A (large) part of me keeps telling me that I’m being overly dramatic. Magnifyi
 
 I bear scars, but I also cherish lessons. Most notably, and most obviously…
 
-DON’T ignore the damn red flags. No exceptions.
+DON’T ignore the damn [red flags](post/red-flags). No exceptions.
-
-  

content/post/2018/12/chasing-her-blinkered/index.md

@@ -0,0 +1,50 @@
++++
+title =	"Chasing Her, Blinkered"
+date = "2018-12-22"
+[[resources]]
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**1*SEZXRDfqb_s0kyhzZGt5GA*"
+categories = ["fiction"]
+aliases = ["/post/red-flags"]
++++
+# Semi-fiction straight from my ink splashed heart
+
+Finch looked up, dazed. Smoke curled lazily around him, caressing gently. He lay at the bottom of a blasted crater with blackened walls.
+
+The muffled voice of rationality in his head exclaimed “What the *fuck* was that?” Again. As it always did. Finch ignored it. Again. He got up. Again.
+
+He was more than shaken by now, limbs screaming at him in a twisted choir. This hadn’t been the first detonation he’d encountered and yet somehow he kept going. Forging onward, one foot after the other pounding the earth. Soon he was running again, sprinting through the knee-high grass.
+
+And why wouldn’t he? The pain soon fell away and besides this place was beautiful. Rolling fields of grassland dissected by slivers of glassy and too blue water. Along their sandy banks rows of little flags protruded almost like markers chasing the winding water. Here and there stoic oaks sprouted proudly, casting long fingers of shadow. From their branches flew multitudes of bunting, flags dancing merrily in the eternal gentle breeze. This was a literal Uncanny Valley, compounded by the misplaced sense of dread Finch got whenever he looked at the flags strewn everywhere.
+
+Finch didn’t care — his heart soared as he ran. He didn’t just run aimlessly through this painted landscape. No, he ran after *her*. Though he never quite caught her. She? She…now she was beautiful too, in the definitive sense. Dressed in a nearly transparent white shift she ran barefoot ahead of Finch. Long golden hair streamed out behind her carefree form. Now and again Finch caught glimpses of emerald eyes sparkling with joy as the woman glanced back at him. She was looking *at* him! Every time she did so his heart fluttered in his chest and he ran just a little faster. Somehow, she sped up too, yet still seemed to move effortlessly.
+
+A burst of laughter rolled over the hills, and Finch thought it was the most perfect sound he’d ever heard. All growling pains from the previous incident dissipated, blown on the unwavering breeze. He let the light from the standstill sun wash over him as he ran on.
+
+**CRACK-*BOOM***
+
+Finch was launched high into the air, momentarily living up to his innocently misguided name. He landed hard and felt several ribs crack as he did so. Pain lanced like slivers of molten fire poured into his nerves, overwhelming.
+
+He lay there, unable to move and listened to the voices in his head. This time the voice of reason screamed at him, muffled no longer. It didn’t scream to get up but to open his eyes and to see. Finch was confused — wasn’t he already seeing? He didn’t get up.
+
+His heart clawed at the inside of his chest, insisting that if Finch didn’t get
+
+up and chase after her, it would leap free of his chest and do so itself. But he didn’t get up. All the pain otherwise long forgotten had come sidling back now, and Finch was tired. He hurt from a thousand repetitions of the ground bucking in explosion underneath him. Finch was spent at last. He didn’t get up.
+
+The voice of reason was calm now the urgency had passed. Finch was not getting up, and now the voice soothingly instructed him to open his eyes. Finch was still confused, but he tried anyway. Concentrating a moment, he opened his eyes, though they were never closed.
+
+And then laying there sprawled in the crater, he *saw*.
+
+All at once the illusion shattered, and see he indeed did. The too good to be true landscape was revealed as just that. As he watched the swaying grasses withered, wilting rapidly towards blackened soil. The once proud trees were merely twisted husks and the rivers ran red like arteries. She too was revealed. The emerald glinting of the woman’s eyes had been replaced by red flickers and gone was the spun gold hair.
+
+The worst, though, was the flags. Where before they had fluttered in the breeze they now hung still. Lifeless. Each one was emblazoned with a stylised skull on a bloodied background. Red flags, red as fresh-spilt blood.
+
+Red flags. Warning signs that Finch had treated like mile markers. Reason blinkered by heart, he had run on and on. Enduring every blast and getting right back up again, striding past every flag. Now that he was broken and could run no more, he saw things as they really were.
+
+Saw the signs though it was far, far too late.
+
+***
+
+Originally published on [Medium](https://hinged.press/chasing-her-blinkered-48a8b084c6fd)
+
+***