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Hirax Immortal Legacy

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I am thrilled to report that things may well be on the cusp of changing for the better Grueheads. For the next ten days, I can take a break from sitting out in circumpolar conditions, awaiting hyperthermia, while desperately attempting to speed up the self-destruction process. My dear friend, C. William Giles, is offering me the temporary sanctuary I so desperately need right now and I’m finally in a position to take him up on his kind offer. Tomorrow morning I shall be embarking on a pilgrimage across country to a location where I can recuperate and focus on moving things up a notch in the process. For the last three months I have been careering toward an early grave and it has become apparent to me during that time that my surroundings are not conducive to fending off the reaper.

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While I’m a stronger person than I was mere weeks ago when sitting out in torrential rain slowly but surely succumbing to my fate, I need understanding of my situation to empower me to haul myself free from the widening trench I have inhabited for way too long now. Breaking a cycle can prove a most troublesome endeavor when your resolve is all but diminished. I have been the proverbial hamster, occasionally breaking from scurrying around my wheel to take a sip from my water feeder, only to begin the whole process once more. Now I have been gifted an exercise ball of sorts and intend on using it to scurry out of the firing line and into an environment within which I can truly heal. I knew there was something different about Giles from primary contact and trusted my gut. I have been proven right a number of times as he offers the constancy I require to consolidate.

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This shall mean no more sitting in dank cemeteries, tapping away on my keyboard with my fingerless gloves, whilst desperately attempting to stave off my premature end. I have ravaged my shell for the latter part of the year and it simply cannot continue on this path. After using up eight of my lives; I find myself at a distinct crossroads. Shit or get off the pot is the term which most accurately conveys my conundrum and it’s time to take that white-knuckle ride to redemption. I’m gonna have me a dump Grueheads. It is likely to be steaming and comprehensive as there’s been a lot of festering crap needed to be shat forth and it’s high time I loosen that sphincter.

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My body recently served me with an eviction notice and, make no qualms, had Giles’ outstretched arm not been provided, I would likely have been fertilizer right now. It’s astonishing to consider that a mere three months ago I had no concept of the dark place I would soon be inhabiting but life has a tendency to pull the rug out from under you on occasion and that is precisely what has happened. Moreover, I am beginning to question the medication which is supposedly making me better. For some time now, I have taken Sertraline in an attempt at restocking serotonin levels in my brain. It was diagnosed for my depression, which had reached such lowly levels, that in August I stabbed myself in the throat with a ballpoint pen. It wasn’t self-harming and neither was I crying out for attention. I simply did not know what to do with my frustration and needed a release valve pronto.

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Anyhoots, Sertraline supposedly provided an answer to my mental decline and, for a while, it appeared to be working. However, now I am not so sure. You see, I happen to be a self-confessed pothead, and smoke weed daily just to take the edge off life. While this isn’t a long-term solution to my woe, it’s a necessary evil right now as I wait for the initial storm to pass. I’m beginning to get an inkling that Cannabis and Sertraline aren’t quite peas and carrots. The reason I say this is that I feel repeatedly beaten and the world becomes a bleaker place by the day. Something is amiss and that means removing something from the equation before the horse truly bolts the gate so to speak. I have no intention of giving up the weed while in such a constant state of disarray as I know my mind and it wouldn’t take kindly to such mutiny. However, Sertraline may well need to go.

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The next ten days will tell me a lot about my state of mind I’m sure and, as much as I will be there to rest my weary bones, learning will also be priority. Should it be creating an imbalance which, considering the complex piece of machinery I access daily, sounds pretty feasible, then I will quit in a New York minute and evacuate that noxious shit straight from my system. The time has long since passed for procrastination; these ten days will be critical to me reaching 2014 in tact. By constantly battering my lungs I leave myself open for Emphysema and, God knows, I don’t fancy that outcome. However, smoking really is the least of my current concerns. When my divorce goes through and any equity becomes released then I will tackle this on my own terms and not because of monetary issues. I know my addiction, and how it manifests, better than any physician could ever dream. Giving up is just not a conceivable option right now.

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Anyhoots, back to the quest at hand. Every human being possesses the ability to become exactly who they could be in their lifetime and it’s accessing that which poses the real quandary. For too many of my 39 years I convinced myself that I had missed the boat and was treading water burdened by significant anchorage. That has all changed now. I know of my ability as a scribe and, through my honest pursuits, of my profession for spreading a little hope to others in similar positions. Humility is key. I have absolutely no interest in massaging my ego as I have the belief in myself to not necessitate such and precious little to prove. I know of my true calling and, through working sixteen hours daily to share this gift, others know it too. Some may cease believing in me as I can admittedly be a frustrating creature. However, should this be the case, then I shall still believe in them. If that sounds overtly saintly than I assure you it is merely me being truthful. But it’s those who have kept the faith as I have teetered over my infinite chasm who have gifted me the tools to pull myself to safety.

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C. William Giles is one such Samaritan and, while under no illusion that I will return to my homeland without unresolved issues still to be tackled, I will be on the right path to redemption. I’ll take that presently as I’m out of ideas as to how to stop the rot and remain open to suggestion always. For now, I shall do as is customary in such circumstances and delve into Keeper’s bulky satchel of memories. This little anecdote fills me with wondrous pride and also perfectly encapsulates the trade-off which transpired when endowed with my flair for prose. While parts of my brain are brilliant; others remain far less beneficial. Basically I’m a clusterfuck; a real glazed doughnut. I insert unwound paper clips into live plug sockets. And, yes, you did hear me correctly.

Wired Science

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Picture the scene if you will. My school physics tutor was something an embittered elf. Merely able to peek over the desktops; he was stunted cruelly by a lack of vertical progression. This, in turn, led to him being afflicted with the dreaded Little Man Syndrome. If his temper became misplaced, as I witnessed on a couple of occasions, then his yard stick would be used as crowd control, so much so, that he shattered it during one particular outburst. Uncannily, it was Keeper who provoked his fury then too.

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I daydreamed a lot as a youth. After being fast-tracked at primary school for possessing the mind of a genius, I promptly responded by frittering my time in some strange alternate reality. My wanderlust curiously coincided with the introduction of trigonometry and algebra to curriculum. I retaliated by running a bookies during history lectures whereby fellow scholars would bet on a horse race narrated by yours truly. How utterly preposterous; I clearly had full control over which horse ultimately won but still my peers got involved in the malarkey. I gifted my thoroughbreds titles such as Horse Head, Mercy Mission From God and I’m Scottish, I Need The Money (no racial slur, simply an open approach to humor, you understand). I’m unsure who was more delusional, me for concocting such a ridiculous steeplechase, or others for hedging their bets but it sure did pass the time.

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On this day, however, I received something of a wake-up call. During one painfully protracted lecture about how to split the atom, I lost heart, unwittingly armed myself with a fully dismantled paper clip, and proceeded to insert it oblivious into a live plug socket on my desktop. It went BOOM! in a most startling manner, sending me reeling from the stool with the words “Shit…Fuck” hanging in the air like a sock filled with moist cum. To my further astonishment the little guy found it all rather amusing and didn’t so much as reprimand me for my foible. He was laughing too hard to even slam down that yard stick so I was somewhat fortunate that day. Of course, he did relay in a reasonably stern manner that, should that have occurred at home, I’d be French toast and I promptly discarded his pearl of wisdom.

The Electrifying Horace Pinker

My niece recently attended the very same school and the cantankerous gnome still taught physics. More hilarious was the fact that, to this day, he still opens each semester with the fable of Sparky. I am Sparky Grueheads, to a small cluster of acne-ridden adolescents I will always be Sparky. Needless to say, I recommend giving live plug sockets a wide berth.

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I’m not assured as to how that ties into my current plight but the best I can come up with is that you live and you learn. Since that fateful day I have never once inserted a paper clip into a live socket so, I guess, there’s your progression. I’m not entirely sure of what I will glean from spending ten days out of mother nature’s firing line but, whatever that may be, I’ll undoubtedly learn from the experience. I’m not ready to succumb just yet; it feels as though there are far too many things still to be said to simply throw in the towel. If you are presently in a state of flux then I would suggest you formulate a B-plan fast. It has worked for me, I may not return fixed, but I can count on being both older and wiser. Most critically, I am determined to break this cycle.

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Click here to read Breaking The Cycle: Return Leg

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)

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8 thoughts on “Breaking The Cycle

  1. Keeper, you always make us laugh!! And I so needed a laugh , Sparky!! LOL I’m so happy things are looking up for you! You are adored by many and we love you fiercely! *hugs*

  2. Be well, Keeper. Regroup. So glad you are doing this for yourself. Whatever it takes. You are our light. ( Sparky) Gratitude to C. William Giles for his compassion when your circumstances became to dire to bear. Wishing you much strength to overcome your adversities. Much love to you. xxoo

  3. Well “Sparky” what can I say but this *If you did share from your “bulky satchel of memories” we would miss reading such amazing stories and get to share them.
    Lovecraft & Poe are definitely inside and part of your beautiful soul. ♡

  4. I still Adore “Sparky and his Bulky satchel of memories” cause they are inside us all.
    Hmmm Sparky vs Muffin, I’m still weighing this and may have to combine both for fun. 🙂

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