Category Archives: Infinite Lover


I know you’re out there. I can feel you being.

We’ve never met before. Perhaps we never will. I’d rather believe we can. There’s more to this world than meets the eye. We have computers, technology, industry, airplanes, astronauts, lasers, and legends. We have more. An ethereal energy flows through us both. It told me about you. Told me you’re strong, but could be stronger. Told me you long, won’t wait much longer.

I’m the same way. All my trials and tribulations have brought me this far for a reason. I’m a broken whole, shattered together; a felled tree, restructured for new purpose. I’m a phoenix fleeing the ashes and taking to the sky. Flying, searching for you.

We both know this ache inside. The one that visits when you’re most alone. The ghost no one else can see. The demon lurking behind you, and me.

Though this may be a test of mettle, I for one am inclined to settle. To cling to the best bit of driftwood I find and hope the tide carries me ashore. I was floating once, and then drowning. Now I’ve learned to swim.

I’m hunting for you in the dark of night, by the light of day, at work and play. I’m prowling, seeking, looking, peaking. I’m the wolf in man’s clothing, scrabbling at the door.

Just breathe. Just be. I’ll hear you. I’ll find you. It’s our destiny.

Keep waiting.


Combat vs. Communication

One winter I worked security at a big music festival’s final evening performance. It was a volunteer gig, and our team comprised of a fairly laughable security squad. Of the nine of us three were underage, none over six foot or 160 pounds, and only two prepared to deal with a potentially violent altercation. Since this was a goodwill event attended mostly by a crowd of professionally connected couples and singles in their late thirties and forties, violence seemed unlikely. At most we would have to bounce a drunk, and I’d done that before.

The heads of security were a pair of senior citizens who were content to sit at the front desk, and asked us to cover the rest of the lobby, hall, and auditorium. By the time we’d been assigned badges and yellow SECURITY T-shirts and begun taking up stations in the halls I needed a cigarette, so I nipped outside and found a quiet place to smoke.

On re-entry I noticed my teammates were mostly clumped in pairs and trios in the lobby and hall close to the reception desk. I walked the perimeter and identified potential danger zones and then retraced my steps and spoke with each member of the team individually. Within a half hour I had them on individual stations set in a zig-zag pattern that covered the lobby, the hall, and the auditorium, and enabled each yellow-shirted youngster to see at least two others at all times. After that I set them on a fifteen minute rotation to keep them alert and incorporate regular bathroom checks.

The guests arrived dressed to impress and flowed past the reception desk, mingled through the lobby and hall, and eventually found seats in the auditorium. I took off my badge and yellow shirt and walked among them alert for threats and detecting none. Once the majority of the attendees had settled in seats the speeches began, and shortly afterwards the band took the stage.

Seeing nothing but responsible adults having a good time, I checked on my teammates and then returned to the reception desk. I asked the heads of security if they needed anything and they told me guests had been exiting and re-entering the auditorium through the side door, which was supposed to be reserved for staff and emergency purposes. They asked me to stand inside the auditorium and deter guests from using the side doors, which sounded good to me because the band rocked around the lead of a charismatic stand-up bass player.

I stationed myself in front of the side doors and listened to the music and watched the band and apologetically turned away the occasional guest and pointed them to the back doors. After an hour or so a man approached carrying a small child in his arms.

“I need to get through here,” he informed me.

“Sorry sir,” I responded as I had to all the other guests, “the side doors are reserved for emergency purposes, if you could please proceed to the main exits at the back I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The man took a good look at me, and then a good look at himself. I was wearing cargo shorts and a cheap yellow SECURITY T-shirt and army green crocs. He wore a three piece suit that probably cost as many thousands of dollars and fine leather shoes, and he was taller than me, and heavier, and broader across the shoulders.

“Look buddy,” he told me, “I own this building. I’m the one who paid for this whole event, and I could have you fired in a snap. So you’re going to let me through those doors.”

I chuckled and took a deep breath.

“Listen buddy,” I said, catching his eyes and not looking away. “I’m a volunteer so I’m not sure you can fire me, and even if you do I’m the head of security, so no one will escort me from the premises for you. Also, these doors are reserved for emergency purposes. Unless there’s a fire, you’re not going through them.”

The man took a surprised step back, staring at me and then looking away and then checking his very expensive watch. Even with a few drinks in his system he didn’t have the courage to respond.

The little girl in his arms wriggled and whispered something in his ear.

“She has to go to the bathroom,” the man said blankly.

“You should have started with that,” I informed him, stepping aside and holding the door open for them to pass. I smiled at the child. “Bathroom emergencies count.”

A Sneak Peek inside Murderville

For anyone new to my blog, I’ve been living with a Traumatic Brain Injury for two years now and in honor of Brain Injury Awareness Month I’ve been sharing my story as well as some notes on the concepts and strategies that helped me through the darker times. If you’d like to read my story On Brain Injury and Invisible Illness the link is provided, or if you or someone you care for has recently suffered a brain injury consider consulting my Top 5 Tips for TBI Recovery. They aren’t anything special but if you’re lost and looking for direction, they can point you in some safe ones.

A Sneak Peek inside Murderville

There are a few things about The Pixie’s Paramour (my first novella) and Murderville, the city of its setting that only people who know me might aware of. Others may suspect, but I decided to level the playing field and put my cards on the table.

The currently unnamed male protagonist in The Pixie’s Paramour is largely based on myself, and this is where I gotta go a little bit deeper.

I wrote the first chapter (Combat) in ten and twenty minutes spurts over about two weeks not long after my injury. As can be plainly observed, I had a lot of anger and frustration to express and managed to find a creative medium. I’m wondering if a book with such extreme content can be used to raise awareness, but the truth is that it attacks the issues that I see most prevalent around me. Gender discrimination, abuse, prostitution and slavery, substance abuse and trafficking, and corruption are themes which will likely come up over and over again in future Murderville books.

Of course Murderville is not just about social issues. Some of the inspiration comes from my lifelong study of martial arts and combat. I suppose the Pixie is a vessel of my love for the beauty and mystique of martial arts, while the male protagonist represents the gritty, hard side of realistic combat. For a long time I’ve wanted to publish works that integrate these two different fighting philosophies, and The Pixie will be my first opportnuity.

Back to the characters… the male protagonist is based on me, but rather a version of me that I have long since left behind. I have plans for his evolution that will keep him from becoming a mary-sue or whatever they’re called. And for anyone wondering, he will have a name by the end of the book… in fact he does already, but you might need to buy it to find it out. The Pixie is based conceptually on a particular young woman I met in my hometown, as are many of the other main characters. Some scenes and pieces of dialogue are actually taken directly from real life, although always set in a different context.

That brings us to Murderville itself. Some years back there were a string of unrelated gunshot deaths in my hometown and I heard from an unreliable source that certain media outlets had dubbed us “Murderville”. Regardless of whether the story was true, the name and the idea it represents stuck in my mind. I’ve actually planned several storylines for Murderville that I won’t be able to bring in until books II and III, but none of them ever took shape as strongly as the Pixie. However the concept of a version of my hometown heavy with crime and corruption has steeped in my mind.

For a long time after I finished the first chapter of The Pixie’s Paramour it sat stagnant on the hard drive of my old computer. I was struggling a lot with creativity and analytical thinking, two of the skills I use most when writing. I was also frustrated because in my current state of post-concussion syndrome I lacked the focus and cohesive thought necessary to string multiple stories together within The Pixie’s short time frame.

Almost two years later, I’m happy to say that The Pixie’s Paramour is nearly three-quarters complete and thanks to proper treatment and therapy my brain injury is not impairing my cognitive processes nearly as much. The ultraviolent nature of this novella is still an excellent outlet for my lingering anger, but mostly I am just proud that I managed to pull something worthwhile out of what was undoubtedly the darkest time in my life.

If you’re not on WordPress you can follow the progress of my first novella on The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. If you know someone who is into graphic novels or thriller novels or action movies, consider sharing the page with them!

Alex’s Top 5 Tips for TBI Recovery

N.B: This is not so much a completed document as it is the notes I’ve prepared for my first video on a YouTube channel I hope to launch soon. There’s a lot of things I’ll probably say in the video which I haven’t written here, but the main points are all there as well as the links to the resources I’ve compiled. Feel free to comment if you have any questions/suggestions. I appreciate the support!


Hi, I’m Alex and I’ve been living with a Traumatic Brain Injury for about the past two years. I’ve also been living with other invisible illnesses my entire life, and if you’d like to know more about my history you can link to that post here: On Brain Injury and Invisible Illness.

Because March is Brain Injury Awareness Month and I’ve recently made some significant strides in my recovery I wanted to start this channel off by sharing the top five tips that helped me recover from my TBI. They aren’t supposed to be better than anyone else’s advice and they aren’t in any type of hierarchal order, actually I’m presenting them in the order which they entered my life and helped me begin to see improvement. And they aren’t so much tips as they are categories, themes, or concepts. For anyone who has questions feel free to ask them in the comments down below, and anyone who has experience living with a brain injury please chime in with any advice of your own.

1. Support
Emotional support is very important because brain injury survivors are 6 times more likely to have suicidal thoughts
, according to recent statistics. For me support falls into three categories: Family, Friends, and Professionals. Shop around for the right counsellor/therapist/psychologist, someone who specializes or has experience with Brain Injuries. Friends/family can be supportive just by spending time with you. Friends can also come in the form of strangers online met through Brain Injury and Post Concussion Support Groups. The people in these groups WILL be your friends and will ACCEPT you as family. They’ll be there for you pretty much night and day and so I’ve provided links below to two of the groups that I’ve gotten the most benefit from.
Facebook support groups:,

2. Treatment
Medical (pills and ongoing relationship with a good doctor who will make the proper referalls), Therapy – Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Talk Therapy, Anger/Rage/Grief release. Physiotherapy, vestibular therapy, massage therapy. Again, shop around. Find a doctor who has experience with TBI or is open-minded enough to learn. Self treatment is important as well, so I’ve provided resources for interactive online CBT which help with anxiety, depression, and overall wellness.
Resources for Self Treatment:,

3. Acceptance / Commitment. Accept you are reborn, starting fresh, and commit to being optimistic about this. Accept new challenges and struggles and commit to conquering them. Accept that people will turn their backs on you, commit to understanding this means they were not right for you in the first place. Accept that neurological pathways are damaged, commit to rebuilding them.
EX: My difficulty rising in morning made worse by drugs. Accepted challenge, commited to conquering. Practiced getting up every day and returned to bed if needed, eventually realized changing timing of meds could help, discussed with doc, seeing improvment.
Acceptance/Commitment Therapy:

4. Decompression
Better known examples include yoga and tai chi, also massage/physio. Personal favourites: Bioenergetic release and Dynamic Meditation. Important because TBI causes literal physical compression (neck, shoulders, back) and anxiety and depression which are symptoms of psychological/emotional compression. Common to feel “different” or “trapped” or “disconnected” from body/world. Decompression will help get the emotion and anxiety out of your head and into your body/voice so you can work through problems and communicate needs more effectively. In this way Decompression will help with the first 3 tips.
Bioenergetics warmup: Dynamic Meditation Video: Original Dynamic Meditation Protocol:

5. Mindfulness
Means being aware or mindful of what is going on in the present moment. Mindfullness will help with things like learning your limits and how far you can safely push yourself, as well as dealing with negative thoughts/emotions and promoting positive psychology and happiness. Simple mindfullness exercises include ordinary meditation and gratitude journaling.
Mindfulness resource: Mindfullness Video: Mindfulness book:

On Brain Injury and Invisible Illness

My name is Alex and I have been living with a Traumatic Brain Injury for a little less than two years. This March being Brain Injury Awareness month inspired me to become more active regarding invisible illness on social media, and this led to a startling discovery. I was born with an invisible illness which by age twelve caused further invisible and difficult to treat disorders. Let me explain.

I am allergic to gluten and dairy but was not diagnosed until age 22. These undiscovered food sensitivities made me quite scrawny as a child and teenager. Despite this (and completely unaware of my dietary needs) I compensated with youthful energy and determination. Although I was generally smaller and weaker than other kids my age, I became a competitive endurance athlete through sports such as cross-country running and speed swimming. I also fell in love with martial arts at an early age and studied a wide variety of them over the years.

I could never build much muscle or even body fat. I was teased as “scrawny” at school and asked in semi-seriousness by concerned adults if my parents fed me. I assumed this was just the way I was, and through my love of martial arts developed a warrior mentality which turned my weaknesses to strengths. I learned to use strategy in place of strength and timing in place of speed. I was quick and tough, but that could never be enough.

By age twelve my nutritional deficiencies showed further symptoms in the form of chronic insomnia. With each passing year the number of hours I slept on average per night dwindled. My parents were aware of this symptom but not its severity, and blamed it on my apparent poor sleep habits. As a minor they controlled my access to medical treatment, and so the symptom went undocumented for years.

Sleep deprivation took its toll first in the form of significantly reduced grades and behavioural problems. Over the course of two or three years I went from being an A student to a B- at best, from a friendly class clown to a semi-isolated loner. The adults in my life called this “acting out” and “bad behaviour” and my parents sent me to a psychologist their work benefits could afford.

In the dark quiet room and the counsellor’s comfy chair my mood swings rarely showed. He was a wise and intelligent man and we discussed philosophy, concepts such as mortality and happiness and fulfillment. The talks always made me feel better in the moment, but the problem was not originating in my brain and so the psychologist’s treatment failed.

By the time I graduated and went to University I was sleeping one hour per night on average. Rarely more, and often less. I compensated with binge drinking at night and studying by day. I made it through the first semester with good grades, and then crashed. I became perpetually ill, the food from my residence’s cafeteria providing even less nutrition than my parents’ best attempts at home. I also showed symptoms of anxiety and depression, as I had in high school, although mild and always linked to the most severe bouts of sleeplessness.

Between home, university, and a nine-month volunteer program I joined at age 20 after dropping out of university, I was treated for insomnia by no less than six different doctors. I tried every sleep aid and sedative they could prescribe and everything I could buy over the counter in drugstores. Nothing worked for more than a night or two, and most left me feeling hazy and listless.

After the volunteer program ended I completed a semester at the local college, but again fell ill and dropped out. I held several different jobs for short periods of time, always doing well at first and then getting so sick I had to quit and take time to recover. I lived off welfare more than I would have liked and considered applying for disability, but my doctor turned his nose up at the idea and offered to prescribe more sleep aids.

At age 22 I visited a Naturopathic Doctor for the first time who, after a physical examination and long series of analytical questions, suggested I might be allergic to gluten and dairy, and more sensitive to sugar than most.

A two week elimination diet showed immediate signs of improvement. My energy was more balanced throughout the day, and after the first week I slept better than I had in years. With the addition of a vegan probiotic formula taken in the morning and several nutritional supplements, I felt almost human.

I returned to training in Mixed Martial Arts, which I had transitioned to at age 18 but could never commit to fully due to the extra healing time my nutrition-deprived body required after such intense workouts. I got a job at a local fast food joint and in my free time began developing a plan for my own business and looked for better paying work.

After six months at the fast food joint I was hired as a driving instructor by a local company. The starting wage would be $25/hour, but I would not be able to begin work until after completing a month-long training program that next took place in April. It was early March.

I continued working at the fast food joint through the month until a day that changed me forever. For a long time I felt the better part of me died that day, but I’ve recently learned to look at it as a rebirth.

A metal basket fell from a high shelf and struck me directly on top of the head. The blow caused me to stumble backwards. A co-worker heard the basket clatter to the floor and came around the corner as I slumped against the wall.

I didn’t understand what was happening. I’d taken harder shots to the jaw in sparring and so I got to my feet and laughed it off. My co-worker asked me if I needed to sit down for a while, and I said yes. I hadn’t realized until he asked how confused I was feeling, because the simple yes or no answer took several seconds to process.

I sat down in the office and the manager came in. She was very apologetic because the shelf was posted higher than safety standards permitted and such heavy items were not supposed to be stored on high shelves in any case. She said many things but I don’t recall the specifics. Offered to take me home or to the hospital, which I declined. I’m a warrior. I told myself, what doesn’t destroy you makes you stronger.

After a short break I went back to work but couldn’t seem to make sense of the simple physical tasks I had mastered in six months. After realizing I was wandering from one work station to the next and accomplishing exactly nothing, I asked my manager to drive me home. She complied quite happily.

I went inside and turned on my computer and told a friend online what had happened. She had experienced several concussions in her lifetime and immediately asked me to go to the hospital. I was beginning to feel a little sick, and a little scared, and since by coincidence I lived within two blocks of the hospital, I followed her instructions.

Walking into the emergency room made me feel like a fraud. I was fine, wasn’t I? Just had my bell rung, or something. I can’t remember if the wait to see the doctor was long or short. I can only recall a few of the diagnostic questions she asked me. The obvious ones like did you lose consciousness.

She diagnosed me with a mild concussion and recommended I take the next two days off work to see my own doctor and determine further treatment. She told me to go home and get lots of sleep.

Even after six months of mostly following my gluten and dairy free diet, I rarely slept more than four hours a night. Ordinarily it didn’t bother me. I would leap out of bed in the morning and do deep squats and pushups to wake my body up.

The morning following the concussion I did not leap out of bed. I woke with a pounding headache and struggled to sit up. After realizing I had been sitting there for fifteen minutes, I urged myself to get up and start the day. Squats and pushups, right? My body would not respond. I opened my mouth to encourage myself verbally.

No words came out. My tongue felt like it was shot full of Novocain and my lips struggled to form proper shapes. In secondary school I’d been an actor and singer with impeccable diction. In college I’d aced a course on speaking clearly into a microphone. Twenty four hours earlier I could have rattled off any tongue-twister you cared to name.

I’m not sure how long I sat there (it felt like hours) but I worked and worked until I could say my name. Alex. And then, My name is Alex. Slow and slurred, like symptoms of a stroke I had learned to diagnose in first aid training.

I spent the day in and out of bed, re-teaching myself to speak. My doctor’s appointment would be the next day and I needed to explain what had happened. I felt I was living in a pseudo-reality which would vanish in a day or two. How could the world suddenly seem so different, so difficult?

I asked my mom to pick me up and drive me to the doctor’s office because I couldn’t remember what time the busses came and reading the schedule was beyond me.

I explained the situation as best I could to my doctor and struggled to answer her questions. Any phrases I hadn’t pre-planned in my mind got jumbled in my mouth. She diagnosed me with depression and prescribed antidepressants. I could not have been more confused by this, and asked why she would prescribe antidepressants for a concussion. She explained to me, like a teacher introducing kindergarteners to the concept of math, that I was depressed. The symptoms I was showing all pointed to depression, and she did not believe they were associated in any way with the blow to my head.

This baffled me. A hundred counter-arguments sprang to mind at once and I could extricate none of them from the mess. Feeling hopeless and lost, I asked the only question I could think of.

“Will these make me better?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes they will.”

Within three days of taking the prescribed pills I was sleeping even less and feeling suicidal. I scheduled an emergency follow-up appointment with my doctor and got on a bus that would take me to the terminal. I got confused in the crowd and missed my transfer and ended up walking to the doctor’s office.

What would have been a leisurely stroll a week prior left me winded and sweating with a pounding headache. At the office the receptionist informed me the doctor was too busy to see me, but I could see a nurse practitioner instead. I felt good about this. In my experience, nurse practitioners were better listeners than doctors.

After explaining what had happened and relating the symptoms I was experiencing, I waited a long moment for a response. The nurse practitioner looked me square in the eye and accused me of trying to get some extra time off work. She told me to go home and keep taking the pills and get lots of sleep.

Everything fell apart over the next month. My workplace failed to provide appropriate modified duties, and having no ability to advocate for myself nor the presence of mind to seek legal aid, I resigned early. I kept telling myself the symptoms would be gone soon, the pills would work, and early in April attempted to complete the month-long training program necessary to work as a driving instructor.

I fought my way through the depression but was struck for the first time in my life with debilitating anxiety. My nervous system went haywire, and while forcing myself to attend the first week of classes I went five days without sleeping. That is 120 hours without rest. Unable to digest food and suffering severe back pain, I checked in to the hospital, forfeiting my chance at the driving instructor position due to a strict attendance policy.

The nurses put me in a quiet, dark room and told me it would be a little wait, to let them know if I needed anything. On the soft hospital bed, alone in a dark clean environment I calmed down enough to explain the situation when the doctor arrived. He prescribed a sedative to help calm my nerves and get to sleep, and recommended a serious review of the antidepressants I was taking with my own doctor.

Over the course of the next month, the pieces my life had fallen into shattered. My doctor’s office discharged me from their service for insisting that my symptoms were related to my concussion. My girlfriend broke up with me for not being supportive enough. Six of the people I felt closest to in the world turned their backs on me and whispered to others about how I had become an antisocial hermit.

I ended up applying for disability through a locally funded psychiatrist and was accepted into the program some months later. I continued seeing counsellors and therapists of all sort, but without much success. Feeling suicidal, I called crisis intervention lines on multiple occasions and was assigned appointments with a psychiatrist who gave me Cognitive Behavioural Therapy worksheets for sleep and mood disorders, and told me it was up to me to make them work.

Without the love of my mother and a few true friends, I would surely have killed myself. I suffered in every moment of every day and saw no way things would change in the future.

One sleepless night I called the crisis line again and spoke with a much kinder worker than ever before. When I said I didn’t know where to start she encouraged me to start at the beginning, and I did. I started with the concussion and told her everything since.

The worker referred me to the local branch of the Brain Injury Association, and I called and then dropped in the next day. The only woman in the office was a speech therapist who could offer little outside her field. But she gave me some instructional literature on how to better recover from a brain injury and recommended a brain-training app I could download on my phone.

With these simple tools I saw more improvement in the next few weeks than I had in the past year. I used a massive variety of mindfulness exercises to create long periods of time in which I was highly functional. For the first time in over a year my illness became truly invisible, and I thought maybe it was gone.

I got a job as a taxi driver and put all of my energy into the profession. I made money hand over fist by day, getting big tips with my excellent listening skills and easygoing banter. At night I was wracked by anxiety and panic attacks and swept perhaps a wink.

Before three weeks passed I made a mistake on the job and got fired for the first time in my life. My confidence shattered and I couldn’t seem to pick up the pieces. Without the stress of the job I slept better, but the symptoms of my anxiety showed even more strongly by day.

I kept trying. I found a new doctor and a new therapist who believed I had suffered a brain injury and would work with me to get better. Feeling like someone was on my side helped, but I still struggled with the daily anxiety and the inevitable depression that being too nervous to leave the apartment leads to. I refused treatment for anxiety out of fear of pharmaceutical drugs, certain that with enough time and sleep and relaxation my former confident, grounded self would return.

It never happened, and my mood wavered precariously. But my therapist, for all her pleasantries and pretty language, hammered one lesson home each time we met. That I had to let go of the “old me” I remembered and loved, and start working forward from the day after my concussion.

At first this presented as a logical paradox to me. Accepting the fact that I was a different person following the injury meant I would never be as athletic, or as creative, or as confident or social. So I could not accept it.

Over a few weeks the lesson my therapist repeated sank in. Several things contributed… I watched a video on reconciling logical paradoxes, I began a new meditation and gentle exercise regimen… and I still couldn’t accept the idea of being that broken young man sitting in his bed sounding out his own name. But I trusted my therapist and decided to proceed as if she was right, regardless of my own thoughts.

I scheduled an appointment with my new doctor and explained the symptoms I was experiencing extensively. He diagnosed me with “debilitating anxiety and related depression” and proposed a two-pronged approach to treatment. A full course of anti-anxiety medication supplemented by sedatives to take the edge off and help deal with any preliminary side effects.

We discussed my many concerns at length, but in the end I conceded. This was one of the only solutions I hadn’t tried, and I had an excellent support system in place in case of bad reactions.

The treatment didn’t go smoothly at first. My mood was all over the place and the sedatives threw off my equilibrium. But the sedatives also took the edge off my anxiety, and unleashed the creative mind that had been trapped for almost two years.

Within two weeks I designed new regimens for myself drawing on sources ranging from Bioenergetics and Dynamic Meditation to yoga and gratitude journaling. As my cognitive abilities improved I tweaked the timing of my medications for maximum results.

And then all of a sudden something shifted. I turned a corner in a maze I’d been stumbling through for more than a year and saw an endless horizon rather than a brick wall.

I accepted the fact that I was reborn the day of my brain injury, and started thinking about how far I’d come since then. A little under two years ago I was sounding out my name in bed. I was getting winded from walking up a hill. If a stranger on the street asked me a question I wouldn’t know what to say.

Now I can sing and dance and jump and run and sustain short conversations with strangers. I can sit and write for hours at a time rather than minutes. And I can smile without forcing the corners of my mouth up. Looking back, the progress I have made is massive. It is astronomical. It’s exciting. I’m focused on what I can do now and what I will do in the future… not what I could do in a different lifetime.

This shift in perspective is something I had to share, because I have seen so many others struggling with similar symptoms on social media. There are so many instances of people with brain injuries and other invisible illnesses being denied proper treatment and support that I had to share this whole story. In hopes that it will inspire… something. I had to write this for my own catharsis, but I’m sharing it out of respect for the thousands of people with brain injuries who are banding together to raise awareness, this month and always. There are so many people with stories similar to mine and they need all the support we can provide.

For myself I’m optimistic about the future. My body and mind are not as strong as strong or swift as they once were… but I remember a scrawny boy who beat strength and speed with tactics and timing. I’ve got a lot to learn from him.

A little smut-update

Recently I’ve been distracted by my first ghostwriting job on and haven’t had much time to blog. In the interest of keeping this thing from stagnating, I decided to repost something I wrote for another site today. It’s from a fantasy roleplaying forum which I haven’t visited in awhile, It just so happens to be a sexual scene, so DO NOT READ ON unless you’re interested in reading a little smut. Might take it down if it’s not well received.

Josh felt Kyla’s soft skin yield to his muscle. She was beneath him, tantalizing, inviting him in. Each instant of contact sent waves of need throbbing through his body. Like the gears of an internal machine urging him to take her.

Her ice blue eyes stopped pleading and melted as he accepted the invitation. She arched and swooned in response to his strokes, as if she had not been touched so deeply in years. Her fingernails clung and dragged, leaving long marks on his back that stung in the sweat that soon slathered them both. Kyla moaned in time with the music from the club below. Josh hummed to the tune and kissed her neck, vibrating lips eliciting a giggle.

“Oh yes,” she gasped, “please touch me,” her eyes rolled back as she all but shrieked, “there!”

Josh speared a thick forearm beneath her shoulders and passed one of her lithe legs in front of his sturdy frame, pulling the Mystic into his lap. Still inside her, feeling the quiver of her climax. She leaned back against his abdomen, delighting in their combined heat, stretching out her throat to kiss him behind the ear. She lost track of the kissing and gasped against his neck as his free hand worked its way between her legs.

“Oh take me,” she repeated incessantly in time with the roll of her hips, “take me away, take me forever, by the Thayne just take me!”

She had her legs out almost straight as she gyrated on top of him. Josh was losing himself to her scent, the ticklish feel of her damp hair on his neck and the building waves of pressure between them. His heavy hands descended on her creamy thighs and slid along the slick skin, finding knots and tension she might not even have noticed. Some forgotten soreness leftover from the combat in the Cell most likely. Kyla caught her breath at the new source of sensation, a little pain mixed in the pleasure.

Josh exalted in her suppleness, feeling as though the tension his fingers eradicated was his own. He let go of all control as the tension popped and released.

He had an instant of bliss as Kyla cried out and he sewed seed deep inside her. An instant of nothing but loving Her. And then he was back in reality. Kyla’s head lolled limply and she slumped toward the hardwood floor, unconscious from enduring such ecstasy.

Josh caught her easily and rolled so she ended up laying in the middle of the bed, as if slumbering peacefully. He had been expecting her to faint, or perhaps hoping she would. It had happened before, with similarly young and tactile women. But none had ever reflected the pleasure back on him to such depths… the Mystic had shown Cronen something new.

Kyla awoke with a start and pounced on him immediately, as if she had been dreaming he would be laying beside her, or merely pretending to have passed out. She wrapped her arms around his neck and threatened to knock his head off with kisses. Josh returned the affection, letting his eyes fall shut. It had been some time since he had lain in bed with a woman just for the sake of being with her. And she felt so good…
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