Semantics with Rowan.
We walked, went on a word share adventure.
He played his own game.
Word linking, the subconscious.
Freud. “read these books”.
Analysing dreams. -bullshit.
The freedom of death.
When you die, what happens to your mind?
“JUST BLACK”
-What happens? What is you?

Patrick made it to the top of Lynton Ave. He was talking to his friend. Arriving at the turning circle he was distracted by the ongoing tangent that spun off-of the nature-nurture debate. He stepped out infront of a car and was killed.
Guilt flooded from his every pore. Poor Patrick. Blood poured from his nose, mouth, ears and eyes.
He’d bitten off his own tongue, back-flipping through the air, clipping a stop sign, that was red, set upon a backdrop of blue-black night sky. Clear. He’d never had such clarity of thought, he’d nearly died. He was dying, but not instantly. His vision blurred. Sluggish, sloppy breathing. He kept feeling the need to spit but it just came out in a wheeze. What were we talking about, he wondered.
The woman in the car had stopped a few meters on. The radio still played.
“do, do, do, do, do”. It was the soundtrack to an old Australian drama called heart beat. The irony was lost on her. She’d screamed herself mute in the small cabin of her car. She’d travelled through the turning circle at speed after a long day at work. She was a fit young business woman with dyed orange hair. She wore a pencil skirt most days, regardless of the weather and was never late.
Today she was thinking about her weekend when Patrick had done his aerial dance.
All she could hear was a high pitched, static of white noise.

Did Patrick’s soul leave his body? Rowan couldn’t be sure. His breathing had stopped. Watching his colour fade, his life force and energy bleach… Seeping into the gutter. Rowan wondered at the angle of Patrick’s broken wrist. Unnatural. He cupped the back of his head and rocked back and forwards.

Patrick saw pokies and the strips of light flashing in his creative minds eye. Cherries and dollar bills and stars were what he kept landing on. Cold. But not unpleasant. Some kind of long accustomed freeze had set in, somehow he couldn’t move. Patrick was too despondent to complain, sit up or move. Rowan would look after him. It was a claustrophobic feeling.

We had played the word game.
I had told him why I got out of bed each and every day.
People were driven by all sorts of things.
Motivations changed.
People were at different understandings in their individual lives.
Fluctuating people, means that philosophies changes over time.
There are so many to learn.
Each person with their own experience and ideas.
The lexicon, shared understanding, culture helped us shape ourselves.
But our decisions and directions come from within.
Take time.
Try to learn it all.