I think I wanna create… a calm mind. That’s it. That’s the biggest and best thing I can hope for. I’ve gotta go… to the very pit of mental strength, it seems, to break the ocd cycle. And by break it I mean just that thing. No other ways will work. It hasn’t and it really won’t. The fallout? Of a mental disorder that is totally illogical and nothing else to it? Can’t happen anymore. And by fallout I mean mentally. I can take what’s happened or hasn’t to me around the OCD occurring. What I’ve missed. What I might still miss. Because, well, it’s made my mind a highly wired thing of mental… understanding. But, then, of course the disorder can only ever either get in the way at any given time, or simply be something I not only live well with but… learn to love, maybe even? That’s it. All these years, all that pain. All the poems that I’ve managed to write, and personalised ones for people too. Amidst a bizarre soundtrack roLlerCoaSteRing inside of my brain of utter… destruction. No one sees another’s pain, how could we do such a thing. But what I want to see is my own mental pain fade away to nearly next to nothing, as it has actually in fact been doing. I scribble chaotically because I worked at that, for that. So very hard and so very much all of the time. My mind fights against the OCD discombobulation by choosing to pick itself up time and again in scribbling brand new and, hopefully, improved arrangements of sentences and poems and prose and stories. Whatever the hell they could be called. I don’t care. I never wanted to be anything special, that’s the truth. But what I do now want is to be okay for, firstly, myself, and for my family and friends too. This was an ordeal of the mind like no other and I’ll be damned if I don’t get myself over the line enough to feel good with the disorder. Because, yeah, it is horrendous for its rotten worth, but I do indeed have it and I will indeed work with it. Just like I’ve been doing all these years since I was eleven years old, I reckon.