| Nick Crutchley |
|
This is my journal. Here you will find stories and poetry, posts about my wanderings through the Scottish Highland and beyond, and musings about the environment and mental health.
I wish you well on your own journey. Nick Crutchley
Categories
 She’s lead Transmuted into gold through love Our heart Bound deep but forever apart Our loneliness echoes in each other’s soul Yet we never speak, and angels weep 
Sea crashes plastic
Fish mercury fed Temperature taken Gaia infected Infested! Humankind spreads 
Mandy stares at the toxic sky. Nearby, a boy picks his way through robot, android and cyborg junk. As she lies naked and half-buried in the undulating ocean of alloys and plastic and human bones, where cheap but expensive to recycle machines and people are sent, she remains silent, motionless, expressionless. Perhaps the child will find something else of value before reaching her, and scavenge it instead?  Doubt dominates belief Self against self Shadow obscuring positive intention And all paths become blocked by the one who says ‘Can’t’ while the other fights, ‘Can!’ But the fight, soon lost, leaves only inaction a decision feared, never made, absconded Can I? No. Should I? No. Why not? You cannot win, see, you’re nobody, no one; who do you think you are? No one? Yes. No one . . . But we engage in conversation I let doubt seep in Friendly, I offer kindness And doubt dissipates Hopefully 
“Dear wife, I’m taking the fish for a walk,” the gnome shouted. “Put the kettle on and when I get back we’ll have a nice cup of turnip tea.” “Deepbarrow, you be careful,” the gnome’s wife called back. “You remember what happened last time you took Rainbow for a walk?” “I’ll remember, dear, only if you remember the turnip tea.” With that said, Deepbarrow closed the door to his underground home behind him. 
Silent, unmoving, Thym awaited the Frost Queen’s wisdom. The monarch’s rigid gown splayed out before her, its frosted-feather weave conjuring a dying phoenix in the she-wolf’s mind. Evoking despair, the mental image wounded the hope Thym sought in the elemental goddess. ‘Help us beasts survive,’ she wanted to shout. ‘My forest burns—those I swore to protect engulfed by flame and smoke.’ Yet the nature guardian restrained herself until the queen’s trance ended, and hoar frost edged her midnight-blue mane white.  Feeling stressed, Marilyn texts a friend for help. The friend does not respond, and their failure to respond triggers feelings of abandonment. Once again, Marilyn knows deep in her heart that no one can be trusted. For two days the emotions rage and she attempts to ease the storm by slashing her shins, which she hides from the public eye by wearing trousers. And even after her friend texts to say they had their purse stolen, with phone, credit cards and car keys, Marilyn cannot return to baseline. Paranoia sets in. Her friend is obviously lying.  Empty words Which we chose to believe Empty words Never meant to deceive We fill ourselves with promises that could never be achieved Our true love an empty love Cleave  White sepulchre, sinners absurd and infidel, Old Horny’s herd shoot up, monotheistic meth animism devolved, Heqet’s death |
