Those little lights above my head. Calling the skin to murmur. It prickles the spine to know, I’m not alone. I can’t remember when I was lost. Wandering in the fog on a wavering strength. These pulsating voices call, welcoming me back. Those faces remain. Allowed in to suffocate the bloodstream. Occupying every darkened corner. We let the dead in. Taking everything but understanding. For they are welcomed by an impulse. An idea that creeps in when the darkness takes hold. Better to be surrounded then end up alone. Yet I was the last to know.
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...
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