My intention was to improve myself; my knowledge, talent and worth, so that I could use my Self as a Sword, cutting indentations in the jungle vines suffocating any small portion of humanity that I could reach. I will carry on with the same agenda because it is all I can do, but I suspect success as I wanted isn’t possible; I am useless and helpless, shouting into a void and not even shouting anything particularly beneficial, at that.

I often wonder these days if the aim should no longer be attempting to pit pure gold against stainless steel, but instead to simply bring comfort, relief and happiness to as many people as possible. If I’ve got no sword to wield, I’ll set aside the ambition to even a few scores and offer a lap for a dying man to rest his head on instead.

I read the news daily, I watch what is happening. When I think about the outside world I am transported to a place where the sky is turbulent and gunmetal, the clouds streak past and my hair whips across my eyes. Everywhere I look there is rushing and chaos. How could I have thought I could place any of this into a semblance of order? I want to freeze the image and transform it into some grotesque tapestry, then slide each strand of silk down to rest with its matching colours, in peace. It is madness to try for such a thing, there are infinite shades writhing about before me and I am paralysed. I am a fool.

When I read the news, and the comments under the articles, I feel like I’m in the middle of a drunken brawl. No sooner have I recovered from one blow than I am enraged and ready for once more unto the breach, then a clip from the left takes me unawares and I’m back on the floor, marshalling my strength for another round. This is of course, purely an analogy of imagination for me; someone of my physical description doesn’t normally have much experience of raucous brawls.

All the hatred towards Americans I cannot even begin to address; there is as much truth as there is fiction but none of it applies to me any more than the man in the moon is made of cheese. There are so many insults I could bandy about to every nationality, but truly, I cannot waste my time on it. Racism is as destructive as it is dull and predictable. I never fail to be horrified by both of my own countries (America and England), and all others equally. There is one very good reason for that, we are all made of the same stuff; we are all susceptible to committing the same sins and making the same mistakes.

Bruce Anderson’s article, “We not only have a right to use torture. We have a duty” left me, along with hundreds of others, horrified at what it explicitly said. It is unfathomable to me how anyone could advocate the torture of innocent people, even children. That the example he chose to write was for the preservation of the National Gallery made my stomach turn; such a highbrow illustration. Another headline tells me that Celebrity A sends Celebrity D a text message and I want to turn from it all in disgust.

Somehow running from it all in disgust simply isn’t an option for me. Nothing short of a full lobotomy and a straightjacket would stop me from wanting to understand or have some involvement. It’s a bleak blog, but it’s been a bleak day. There is hope, there is light and love and delight, of course. We would be unable to see this darkness if there were nothing else. Days like today I feel so tired. If I had the money I’d paint the sky with red puffs from an aeroplane “It’s not me.” Many of us are trying to stop the juggernaut. I’m just not sure it’s working.