This Is My Sign Of Depression – Social Experiment (Video)

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Well worth reading and watching

Kindness Blog

‘Will Is Everything’ (Alan) wrote: “First and foremost I was acting the entire video these are not my actual thoughts; I am not depressed. The crying was done to see how he would react.

This video will restore your faith in humanity when it has been shaken by the troubles in this world. . . It definitely restored mine while I was filming it so much so that I literally had to take breaks to regroup and gather myself before the next shot. I was very moved by the people in this video especially the last two shots with the sign.

The idea was to appear close to committing suicide to see how people would respond and everyone that I put in the video clearly responded with care and shock. A few responded negatively but i chose not to put that in even though what was said would have probably…

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I’m Going Through Withdrawals!

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Grouchy, uninspired, lazy and irritable, I’m not nice to be around without my daily fix.

No I’m not alcoholic; quitting smoking or even coffee (which is just as well as my grandson shares my symptoms).
No, my semi depressed state is due to the bridge we use to cycle to school between the lakes is closed three weeks for renovation. It means instead of coasting past bodies of silent water surrounded by a lush canopy of green and autumn tints greeted by smiling joggers and dog walkers we have to again negotiate bustling roads and pavements with their time distracted occupants.
No big deal you might think, but seriously I’m noticing a big difference. The pleasurable exercise of companionable cycling has again become a battle of wills to get him to school on time in one piece, tempers fray and stubborn rebellion abounds. I shall be so relieved when we can visit our “natural psychiatrist” every morning again!

Dream Magic.

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Do we all dream alike? I’m often amazed at dream concepts related or portrayed in paintings and movies so vastly different to my own. I wonder at the diverse worlds we enter when sleeping.
Personally my dreams generally come in two varieties, what I term “frustration dreams” (often after a stressful day) where I’m trying to find something (a place, person, or item of clothing – even the bathroom!) but just can’t find it.

The other more usual dreams are practical or inspirational. In these dreams I discover solutions to problems, new creative ideas and of course my best stories! I often take it for granted that if I “sleep on it” the answer will probably be right there in my head when I wake up. I’ve discovered though many folks find this unusual. Do my fellow writers also glean words and stories in that wonderful stage between sleep and waking?
As a child I suffered a lot from nightmares feeling myself attacked by some evil force, in total darkness, unable the move or speak, powerless. Thankfully this all changed when I discovered my “magic” word – Jesus. Shouting it out in my dreams gave instant and permanent freedom from nightmares (though I can have troubling dreams on rare occasions they are never frightening and I feel a measure of control if needed.)

I’ve also had a few “prophetic dreams” particularly when I was young and still “finding my way”. These were very different from my usual dreams and were later fulfilled acting as signposts at crucial times in my life.
I’m a lucid dreamer (meaning I’m usually subtly aware when I’m sleeping and can steer my dreams to a great degree thus affecting the outcome). I love the state when sensitivity is heightened and ideas, solutions, (and stories) flow through my waking mind. Sometimes I can’t remember a dream but the peace it gave me in some stressful situation remains on waking.
I tend to approach sleep with a slight air of excitement as one going on a voyage of exploration where new ideas, truths, and glorious pictures become reality for a while and in passing I can gather some up like passing star dust to share with others.

I don’t agree at all with Freud and his interpretations which seem a futile attempt to catalog a realm that is truly beyond our understanding as yet, somehow soiling its beauty in the process. I tend to agree with J P Jackson that dreams are a wonderful gift that we can learn to explore to our profit. I find it strange when some Christians reject the idea that dreams can also be God given. The Bible is full of prophetic dreams – take Daniel for example!
It’s my personal belief that when we sleep and our bodies go to work repairing and growing that our minds likewise sort, catalog, and process the things we’ve been through that day (which is another reason we need more sleep in traumatic times).
What about you? What do you believe and what are your dreams like?

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(Portrayal of lucid dreaming I found)

Stage Fright

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The moment she’d dreaded had come, much perfected notes clasped in sticky palms, stomach churning she stepped onto the platform. Before her stood the microphone, focusing on it she approached, postponing the moment when she’d have to turn to the sea of faces she knew were watching her every move. Panic in her heart said run, but she couldn’t run, if she didn’t deliver the speech who would?
She remembered the sea of forgotten faces, eyes that looked at her in hope. She couldn’t do this alone, she needed help and to get it she must overcome her fears, her inner nature.
“Do it for them! Do it for them dam you!”
Placing her notes on the podium she looked up holding back the urge to vomit. Her knees faltered, her voice wouldn’t come, she stood mesmerized. The audience, already bored with morning speeches, looked on at her cynically as she stumbled through her greeting.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” her voice echoed out in the stillness alarming in its amplified pitch. She faltered. Someone in the front row sniggered, glances were exchanged.
From somewhere inside a surge of emotion engulfed her. The carefully worded notes cast aside she blurted out.
“They’ll die, the children will die without hope, without love. Damn it you’ve got to help me!” Tears burst forth like a flood but she couldn’t stop. Words tumbled out from the depths of her soul surging in unstoppable flows as she blurted out the situation, the need. The audience sat in shocked amazement their blasé exteriors shattered.
She paused, stunned at her out burst. Horrified at what she’d done, mumbling apologies, she stumbled off the platform in abject embarrassment. She’d wrecked everything. Why hadn’t she kept to the script, the safe, carefully worded script?
A shape loomed in her way.
“Just a minute young lady,” a voice boomed out, “you’re not finished yet.”
An arm swung around her shoulders forcing her back towards the mike. She could do nothing. Head down, face wet with tears she stood in total humiliation, but the voice boomed on.
“Now ladies and gentlemen, you heard what she said. Who’s willing to pledge! Raise your hands!” Her eyes flickered not daring to look. Other voices called out.
“I will!”
“Count me in on that!” a torrent of echoes added to the chorus.
Glancing up her eyes once more overflowed, instead of a sea of disdainful faces a sea of eager arms were waving.

Volcanic passion.

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When earth can endure no more they burst forth, erupting into the air in a blaze of sulfuric passion. Forces confined neath solid depths breach the bedrock of the status quo bursting forth in a wave of destructive fury. Forces of nature, long years held in check, shift rock and stone to explode forth in fury, fire kindling nature as tree and bush ignite in a blaze of ferocity. Scarlet flags wave on the air as voices rise in crescendo. Earth cracks as minions from inferior levels blaze forth in their upward flow to pinnacles of power. They cannot be confined forever, see them blaze down the slope of freedom a lashing tongue of flame to all that withstand them.
At last the torrent is silent, the earth stills, air cools. Life can begin again. Steam rises from blackened ground as forces, once fluid, solidify becoming the new “upper crust”, after a while fertile slopes spring forth in life, innovative ideas, new minds, new investment. Homes are rebuilt, land resettled and allocated. Cows graze in peace where once lava flowed, but beneath the soil forces of buried resistance develop, pressure builds.

The White Stetson.

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Song Bird Songs

(Flash fiction inspired by 70’s rock documentary)

It seemed so long ago when life was young and every dream possible, when Hendricks clave the air in wild notes that punctuated the “Stars and Stripes” with Vietnam bombs, when fields of tents orchestrated a new era of peace and love.

She had been young too, had dared believe the dream. All had faded to ashes. Big business took over, exploited the music and milked the ideals to the last dollar. Yet the letter lay in her hand, white, pristine, unsoiled. Would he be the same she wondered? There was only one way to find out.

Boarding the greyhound bus, she looked back one last time. Was she fooling herself? It was forty years since she last saw him, a shadow in khaki lined up for slaughter. They had led separate lives, made their own concessions as dreams withered.

He had sent…

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Dream Master 2

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They wait in the serenity of the forest, breathing in stillness, spirits calm, eyes taking in shafts of light filtering through the canopy above. Birds pepper the silence with songs of freedom and the fresh smell of earth invades their nostrils. They don’t know why they are here or what called them, only this is where they are meant to be. Called from many places, transported on the breath of dreams to this spot, they linger, glancing at each other. A tiny leaf swirls, drifting from its place among the foliage. Separated from its peers the wind bears it as it wanders slowly downward. A bud that swelled in pride and opened its mouth to the sun has shriveled and let go its hold. It sighs upon the wind seeing no purpose in its demesne, not seeing the eyes tracing its course upon the air. The wind unseen, the leaf beheld, transformed into its compass. Unnoticed the dream master emerges. “Don’t be afraid, let life’s wind catch you,” he whispers. “Dance in its embrace as it guides you on your way.” Many leaves begin to descend for the season of falling leaves has come. They lie on soft earth, alone no more, carpeting the forest in hues of red and gold..

Cameras are not eyes!

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I spent another blissful sunny day experimenting with my camera. I reached a conclusion, like all marvelous man made inventions they still cannot compare with nature. I’ve a very long way to go in learning all my camera can do but it seems part of that is realizing its limitations.
Being a sculptor I love exploring depth and volume (around trees in particular). I realized just how much my eye and mind interact when I look at things changing focus again and again, the mind enhancing those things that interest, incorporating mood, enlarging prominent aspects.
No matter how adept the photographer a camera is limited to one set of settings at a time.
My frustration turned to wonder at a part of myself I had never perceived before. How wonderfully I am made (I’m glad I’m not a camera!)

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Life’s Gamble.

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The dice thrown down determines who shall enter on this day

Into the jaws of trial, and who shall guide the way

As swords are drawn in battle and to foul purpose lent

The Devil’s here incarnate the veil it has been rent.

He throws his die upon the earth upon foul purpose bent

The moments pass, his prey consumed. Can this be what was meant?

No, who shall counter in this game? Who shall stand before

The one that hell’s afflicted and guide them to the door?

Who will grasp unto the light and in its presence bare

The one entrapped, and squirming, just who will help them there?

God enters in upon the fray as in His hand He holds

A soldier armed in dread array His purpose to unfold.

He dare not lose for in his hand God placed the thread of life

Which once He gave upon the cross to free men from this strife.

His battle won, he works for God, and he shall win this way

For though the dice is tossed full oft’ ‘tis God shall win the day!

The Prisoner.

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Skinned knuckles clasped the iron bars of his cage, beast like, haggard, grey. His clothes, once immaculate, hung in tatters, stubble and dirt lined his face. He gazed at the moon, pale, imperial, untouched by the hate and anger around him. Serene it floated on high, unsullied, eternal. Against all reason hope stirred in his chest.
Like wolves, eager to feast on his bones, his captors snarled, a rifle butt descending towards bruised fingers. He moved back, back into his isolation, into the darkness, but he had seen the light of the sun reflected in the night sky. He cherished the image of purity in his heart.

Once there had been love and life. Somewhere this moon shone on them still secure and safe in their beds. They would be praying for him of that he was sure; agnostic though he was the thought somehow comforted his heart. At daybreak it would end, it would all end…

Rough hands seized him from troubled sleep dragging him outside. He glimpsed a glimmer of dawn on the horizon, the promise of radiance he’d seen reflected in the moonlight. Hope fluttered. The white washed building loomed before them like a mausoleum. He knew what lay ahead. His guard had gone over it in lurid detail the night before. His incarceration would finally end in one last photo shoot. At least it would be fast (he hoped) faster at any rate than this living death.
He was hustled inside, the bearded pack grinning at the coming blood. Forced to his knees in the bright glare of neon light he squinted his eyes and fought his fear, breath coming in ragged snatches. Hands lashed behind him he leaned forward.
“Remember the moon! Remember the moon!” he shouted inwardly in panic. Then the axe swung. It was over. He was free!