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The next poem-piece will take in a person suffering with Schizophrenia whilst they also vie at becoming one of the greatest modern-day pianists of their generation. It will go through the ins-and-outs of the piece which ‘came to rhythmic fruition’, let’s call it, while I was watching, or at least trying to watch, a film last night titled August Rush, which did in-fact entail the rather beautiful story of a savant-level musical prodigy searching for his biological parents. On the subject of mental health/illness, I might also like to create a poem-piece about JUST HOW ******* inexplicably hard it actually all is in a mental instance to try and not only live as well as I can with this particular level of chronically engrained Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but to also write the way I write, etc. etc. I dunno how miraculous it really all is because it’s all in my brain and head, the mental waste of painstaking time that is involved and against my utter will in ways you’ll, as I say, never be able to describe in… let’s say, a physical sense for anyone else to actually get to see or feel, and moment-to-moment quite often at that. The utter level of chaotic hardship. But, truth is, I think I’ve been too petrified too often to write about it to its truest depth and, ahem, understanding… and I have in-fact written about it and possibly actually ended-up being left with no real picture of it for myself anyhow and pretty much however deep I do let myself go in terms of explaining the theme/s and their utterly ******* stranglehold ways, etc. because, well, as far as I can see no-one else has so far been able to explain the UTTER OUT-OF-TOUCH AGONY that does happen to an OCD sufferer. And plus the fact that what I may really be searching for, even far above intricate levels of understanding from others about my illness/disorder, which really isn’t ever gonna happen, is that actual ‘off-button’, which every single OCD sufferer in the world will have found themselves searching for time and time AND TIME AND TIME… again! Rest-assured. I try and I cry and I pick myself back up yet again, resolute in my mind that this isn’t how it is supposed to be, supposed to remain. Doesn’t need to be. Sure my brain has let my mind down in such an outlandishly rabbit-holed way and over an alarmingly long space of time, with its endless layers upon layers of “fix-it and NOW it will all be okay to move-on and live your life minus it”, and neither can I guarantee my staying okay when living as best as I can with this particular mental-illness, such is its… utterly automatic and perturbing nature of discombobulating fear on the brain, but I have to be proud because I have a good and caring mind, whatever the hell tends to be happening at the drop of a hat in that same mind of mine. The miraculousness is there to see, and feel too, in ways that perhaps only I can ever really get to understand, even if my family do try and go as close as humanly possible to, let’s say, joining me in taking on this particular thing. I am scared, that is all, and don’t want to be alone with this for the rest of my life. None of us want to be. But, yeah, ya make it work, and hopefully a helluva lot more!!!