STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT, By Les Bush

 

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I am neither “normal” or “ordinary”; these words do not, 

cannot apply to either you or me. We are special; extraordinary.

Combination of genetics, experience and perception;

we become our own galaxy, in a social universe.

Obey rules? Why not? Lubricates social intercourse.

As for our raison d’etre, motives; source of being:

can you fully understand why, how or when

you do things? I do not. Conformity is deeply engrained;

ruthlessly imposed. Is the real “me”, the real “you”

rough diamond like, obscured in the wreckage?

Waiting to be found, chipped at and polished

by conflict, confrontation, consultation or confusion?

History is shaped, defined in the aftermath;

peppered by fragments of self-justification and myth.

Follow your beliefs, gut feeling; take a leap of faith;

plough on regardless? Is it all the same?

Questions! Questions beget questions,

some masquerade as answers.

How quickly their form, content and focus can change.

A function of time, experience and aging? Perchance.

I am neither “normal” or “ordinary” (captive words),

matter and energy bound in flesh.

I walk this world a stranger, no different from the rest.

A dance, masquerade; a plant reaching for the light;

even when all seems dark, I have my own insight.

Impartial? No. Incomplete? Without a doubt.

So, hail stranger (or is it friend), when we meet,

what do we exchange? Our uniqueness,

our common longing to be loved, accepted and valued;

a resilient strain of rebelliousness?

Love me, hate me. Do what you might.

We are connected: strangers in the night

Les Bush

19 October 2013

 

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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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