The books on my shelf are my tattoos. The covers are comforts and windows to my mind. They are a display of my thoughts. Thoughts that run rampant in a dizzying spiral suddenly have points in space and time. My thoughts have buckets in these books. My questions have answers and the answers create more questions. 

The shelf in my mind is messy indeed. The ideas and memories and ambitions are scattered like papers shoved into random spaces. One day I retrieve a piece of paper with a verse in my curse. I don’t remember writing it, but it’s honest and true. Sometimes, it’s just a to-do. 

These walls. These walls confine. These white walls box me in. I’m trapped. I can’t breathe. I can’t get out a sentence. One single line. 


Oh! How easy art would be if time I could not see! 

How beautiful it is to follow dreams without the sting of death within. 

How hard it is to work towards a goal so hidden, if indeed it exists at all. 

Pay the bills, flush it down, eat your lunch and it’s dinner now. The night is quiet, but not my mind. 

I pace and pace and cannot find. 

I can’t decide. 

Throw art away to survive, or kill the thought and slowly die.


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The Artist’s Way

I’ve recently been on an audio book binge. I never really liked audio books because I love highlighting things and writing in the margins of the pages of book. Granted, it’s rare that I ever go back to them and read the highlights, but I like that I have that option. 

This week I’ve been listening to The Artist’s Way. Besides its ultra hippie writing style and, how can i put this, femininity, I really like it. I’m actually attracted to ways of living that encompass such connectedness with self, inner self and spirituality. 

The book requires two things of the reader, Morning Pages and the Artist Dates. 

I started morning pages today and the first three lines were just, “F***”, over and over again. Frustrations run strong with this one, huh? The whole idea of morning pages is to free the clutter from your mind so that you can turn on your creativity like a tap. So, today I wrote well, my actually writing, I mean. I extended my concentration time and felt less stuck

Artists Dates is something I’ll post about later when I actually go on one. 

So, todays update; The writing is going well, but fears and frustrations are running high. I’ll just continue to work and see what happens. 

How are you all going? Have you read The Artist’s Way? 

The love I have for you…

I love to hold you with eyes closed,

To tell you what you need to know:


If you couldn’t use your legs, I’d lend my legs to you.

“Oh darling, I can’t feel my feet, are all your sweet words true?”

As true as I,

I’ll lift you high.

All through the love I have for you.


If you were blind, I’d be your eyes to see all pretty things.

“Oh darling, I can’t see at all, why must you break my wings?”

I will tell,

Your beauty well!

All through the love I have for you.


If your hair twisted and fell out, I’d love you even more,

“Oh darling, my head feels so bald, is hair falling to the floor?”

I’ll shave off mine,

To match with thine!

All through the love I have for you.


“Darling please, I’m fading fast.

With your love I could not last.”

I can not stop my heart from song,

I’m almost done, it won’t be long.


If your sense of touch was gone, I’d hold you even more.

“But darling, How my body’s cold! You’re killing me, I’m sure!”

Don’t worry dear,

I hold you near!

All through the love I have for you.


If you hadn’t hands to kiss, I’d kiss you’re little stumps!

“But, darling while you say these things, my hands are falling off!”

Blood is pouring everywhere,

Like a victim of a bear!

All through the love I have for you…


I’m sorry that I dropped you, I didn’t realise!

“Darling, am I in my blood and hair and hands and eyes?”

Do not yelp!

I’ll get you help!

All through the love I have for you.


“Darling please, I’m fading fast.

With your love I will not last!”

I can’t undo what I’ve done wrong.

I’m almost done, it won’t be long.


If you should pass now into death, I’ll follow quickly too!

“Oh darling please stop talking, sweet words you say aren’t true!”

Ok, my love,

Fly as a dove…

The love I have for you is through.


I’d love to hold you with eyes closed,

To tell you what you need to know:

I did not really love you so.

For love is something that you show.


– Written by Randall Evans.

The Beach


Ash floats through misty sea breeze,
Above infinite sand of memory.
And a mother’s son runs along this beach,
With the water cold beneath his feet.

A revery passage to the other side,
A moment’s mortality magnified.
They built a castle by ocean spray,
Worth more in time when washed away.

Beneath, or within, the expanse of stars,
The beach is alone, but these two say it’s ‘ours’.
The boy, now a man, knows just what to do,
He carries his future; a ring out of view.

Mystery entwined in pure connection,
Introspection, no answers, but new life from affection,
The man smiles in his thoughts of reflection,
Undulating emotion recalls the castle’s perfection.

A mother, son, wife and child,
Surrounded by the sea.
The tide rolls in, her spirit drifts out.
Now there’s only three.

The sunset shines across the sand
Something’s heavy in his hands.
Three long shadows slowly fade
Clouds obscure, the beach is greyed.

She holds her son so the man’s alone,
The cold breeze blowing undertone.
With a breath and a cry the ashes are thrown,
Swallowed into sea, mother taken back home.

Ash floats through misty sea breeze,
Above infinite sand of memory.
And a mother’s son runs along this beach,
With the water cold beneath his feet

– By Randall Evans.

The Cave

I ventured deep inside a cave. Down into the warmth of the earth. Into a place where the sounds of the surface are left behind.

reflection -- jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney -- lights -- hike

It’s beautiful.

The rocks were magnificent. Each different formation had a name, ‘Actors on a stage’ or ‘The father of federation’, who faced the only exit.

But these were young names given to impossibly old monuments that have no thoughts or feelings. They neither love nor hate.

Yet attractive and full of mystery, the cave didn’t seem an important place for humans to venture. 

That is, until my light went out.

reflection -- stalic tight - jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney -- chapel -- lucas -- explore

It was total darkness. No phone screens, no torches and no lighters.


I could not see my hand in front of my face.

Heavy is the air that held me.

In that pure darkness, with my breath held silently in the still air, I discovered something.

I exist.

reflection -- stalic tight - jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney

I could still feel my hands. I could feel the texture of the rocks surrounding me.

To base existence on the perceived reality of touch, or any other sense, is far from profound. It was more than that. I based my existence on the following:

I felt the gentle warmth of skin brush past me for a split second.

In the billions of years the cave took to form, that minuscule fraction of time was the most powerful. A fraction of time smaller than a particle of mist that lands in the ocean.

I exist and so do you.
reflection -- jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney -- stairs

The external is real.

I climb to the surface with the other explorers. The sounds of nature return to my ears.

My eyes have become windows. I’m now a guest in this world.

In the light under the warmth of the sun, I feel that moment of invisible beauty.


reflection -- jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney

– By Randall Evans.

Joshologue #2

There are too many elephants in my room.

I’m talking to myself again. The fact that we have two ears and one mouth means that what we say about ourselves is amplified exponentially until it explodes in our minds. The feedback of actualization.

Part of the reason I talk to myself is to hear my own voice. I know that must sound strange, but that’s how our voices sound when we hear them; Strange. Haven’t you ever heard your voice on a recording and asked, ‘Is that what I sound like?’

I bet you can’t even remember the last time you heard your own voice when no one else could.

After listening to myself I realized that my voice doesn’t belong to me.

The voices are coming from the elephants.

The speak on my behalf as I rush to cover them with hay. The more I hide them, the bigger they become.

When I try to hide things about myself I become like a drunk man trying to present himself sober to enter a bar. What I’m hiding becomes obvious.

But then the people watching ask the most important question of all:

“Why does he want to be in the bar so desperately?”

– By Randall Evans.

The Little Man And I

Drip… Drip… Drip…

“What is it now?” A shadow passed across the face of a tiny man. He lifted his head to see a demon perched by the window.

“A lying tongue, my good man.” The demon smiled it’s sharp, stained teeth. It smiled because of the little man’s face. He pulled the face of one who was suppressing an unannounced internal pain. Oh, how beautiful it was.


The little man picked up his sharp little quill and started to write onto the soft, warm surface.

“Work’s been busy?” Asked the man, trying his best to hide any emotion from his voice.

The demon opened his wings to reveal another mouth protruding from his stomach.

It spoke.

“Don’t you want to know what he said?”

The man was only half way through carving ‘lying’ when the bleeding started.

“Or are you running out of space? I know another little man who ran out of space only yesterday.”

“Oh?” The little man’s poker face took up valuable vocabulary space. He finished off his second word, pulled a little handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his bloody hand.

The demon closed his wings and spoke from his sharp teeth.

“Work is easy. I hardly have to do anything. It’s almost like delegating without delegating. They are all under his employ now.

The words reflected on the little man’s eyes as he shut the doors of reaction.


The demon smiled.

“At least it keeps you in a job. I’ll se ya.”

And with that, the demon departed. The little man breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down, wiped his hands free from blood stared at the bleeding heart in front of him. A giant heart, stained and scared with evil.

It was afternoon now and the light from the window was passing along the floor as the day came closer to an end. The light never reached the heart.

The man sat alone in the dark and began to cry.

– By Randall Evans.

Mind Your Mind

The corridors of the mind are ever changing. At first they seem dark and mysterious, but the hallways and rooms are traveled by your subconscious. The little person inside your brain has a very important job. My subconscious’s name is Bill.

Bill walked through the same corridors everyday. Back and forth and back and forth. On one particular night, bill sat down on an old bench in a dark corner of my mind. Bill felt a growing desire within his heart. he wanted more out of life.

He took out a map from his back pocket. On this mind map were all the corridors that Bill had ever traveled. To an outsider, the map looked more like a maze.

When I was young, the corridors of my mind were ever changing. As I learnt and grew into a man, the corridors began to become stable structures. Now, they are more like ancient ruins than magical ever-changing pathways.

Bill went into a deep sleep that night. He dreamt about unexplored tunnels and new beginnings.

When Bill woke up, he took a walk along the corridors. Let’s face it, that’s all Bill ever does.

Yet, on this particular day, Bill saw something strange. Standing in the middle of an old hallway was a door. A door that did not exist before. Bill’s new door.

You see, when I realised my subconscious was a living person, I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed for letting him travel the same thought patterns. I felt ashamed for forcing him to travel the same pointless passage ways when he could be exploring the unexplored.

Bill took out his map. It was ready to be changed. he burst into the door without any fear or hesitation. The mind is a complex structure. It needs to expand or it will suffocate.

It all starts with a choice. I chose to expand my mind, but I have to ask you: When was the last time you created a door?

– By Randall Evans.

The Ringing In Your Ears

I am The Ringing In Your Ears. 

In the beginning, I didn’t understand. Who does understand their life purpose in the beginning?

You recognise me, but you don’t know me. You hear me, but you don’t feel me. I was born as a whisper and the creator of the universe talked to me.

He told me that I had a small purpose in this life, but that he couldn’t tell me what it was. He told me my job was to talk to people when they damaged their ears.

In the beginning, I saw myself as a mere warning sign. All I was, or ever will be, was the ringing in your ears… But I still hoped for more…

One day I went to a man’s ears. He had been at a concert all night and stepped outside to feel the afternoon light on his face.

I don’t normally work during the day, but this man really damaged his ears.

His eyes were closed, but The Eyelids talked to me.

“Why do you look so sad?” They asked.

“Because, I have no purpose.”

The Eyelids looked surprised.

I told them I had nothing to be happy about. Eyelids rolled their eyes.

The Eyelids said to me, “We know how you feel. We thought our only job was to bring darkness to people. But, we were wrong. This man is not in darkness. He is in a light so beautiful… A light that is only possible because of us.”

I looked at the mans face. He was seeing something through closed eyes.

“Who is there with you?” I asked.

The Bright Orange Light smiled and faded away as the man opened his eyes. The Eyelids explained:

“You see, we are the only ones who let him see our love. The Bright Orange Light comes out only because we exist in such harmony with the sun. And The Warmth, The Warmth lingers still. Would you like to meet her?”

I slowly approached The Warmth on The Eyelids.

It indeed was beautiful.

“Why do you cry?” They asked.

“I do not know my purpose.”

The Eyelids said goodbye to the warmth.

“Your purpose is to bring a lasting light and a warmth to mankind.”

I looked through my tears at The Eyelids. They smiled back at me.

“You trigger memory… Every time a man experiences music so wonderful that he damages himself listening to it, you come along and remind him of that wonder. Last night, this man met the love of his life. You ring in his ears and remind him of the music which, in turn, reminds him of the woman.

“You are a pinhole to a shining light. You are vehicle to memories that we can never see.”

I whispered to the man. I warned him about damaging his ears. 

The man smiled and I found my purpose.

– By Randall Evans.

Joshologue #1

Hi… I’m Josh.

This is my first time talking to myself… I wonder if it’s strange for you too…

Why talk? What type of void am I filling? I’m not sure… Yet…

Well… Here we go.


In almost every aspect of life, I come to the point where it becomes necessary to question the conventions. Perhaps it’s not the conventions per say, rather, the flow of things.

For years I was friends with this writer. He used to always get lost in his own words. Well, I guess the words weren’t his… the words he aligned… Well… One day, he became bored.

The writer became bored of creating a fictional fabrication of a simple idea that could be put rather simply.

He asked me, “Is this just excess fat, or is it important to the story?”

I had no idea… So I told him my story, put simply.

A man wakes up, skips breakfast, works a seemingly endless day and comes home to an overcooked meal and an under-loved wife, only to starts the process again in a few hours time.

The writer looked me right in the eyes. Right in the soul.

So… Where is it? Where is the substance? Where is the fat?

Well, I guess it could be seen differently… It’s subjective right? Author intent is only part of the meaning that can be derived from any story… Of course, I didn’t express these desperate feelings of justification to the writer… he might have blogged about it….

Finally he said to me, “Well, in this scenario it is pretty obvious where the fat is…”


“It’s the whole story.”


This is the vile mint.