Danny Kemp.

Boundaries on maps, are like boundaries in our mind.

How do you picture a tree, has it a trunk, branches and leaves? If yes, then it is the same tree that I visualize, but no two trees are the same.

We are like that. None being identical to any other. Yet we are hypocrites, and deny and resent that fact.

We decry individuality in any and ever walk of life. Preferring to bracket people into bundles that we feel easier to deal with, but we celebrate our own individuality by existing in a space all of our own and showcasing our thoughts and beliefs. Feeling free to speak out in defense of that freedom, but only if we are white, heterosexual and come from the right side of the globe, and perish the thought, do not flirt with controversy.

If you are one of the less fortunate, and not one of them, then those that are, will help you out of your mess by trying to convert you, and lead you down the path to a more conventual life, thereby ensuring the perpetuation of mediocrity.

Whether you believe in a ‘big-bang’ theory or in a world created by God, the one thing they both have in common is that individuality. A uniqueness, shared by no-one; or no thing. The trouble is, that if we show our differences, or speak out against inequality, we are disliked and in some cases; hated.

Why is that?

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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