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Waking up this morning has kind of answered the question I posed in my last blog. I can see the London skies are grey now but they weren't when I opened my eyes. Reality changed its mind this morning.

The colours of at my window waxed deeper, stronger, wilder; the skies were the colour of a thousand setting suns reflected in the swirl of melting glass; every particle of air had its own individual, unequivocal jewel. Birds were flying free Free FREE across the skies. Trees turned into giant flowers under a hallucinated sky and kaleidoscopic sun. Trees burned with Vietnam War radiance, with the terrible haloes of a million animals burning to death. This strange morning greeting reached its electrical peak, like a Hendrix riff pulled so wild it snaps. It wasn't just a visual experience, it was a strong mental one. I had the idea that death is a strange art, and living is the work of that art. The comedown took the lift and its muzak, but was pleasant in itself. The light in my room was so sweetly nameless, so painful, so lonely; it haunted and then faded away – not unlike the human soul, eh?

Psychosis gave me a gift this morning.

Now I am getting ready to go out and the skies are grey again...

Keywords: psychosis,