© Steve Gray 2026
My health has recently taken a battering, there are things I have missed. The pain I endured the endless repeating of medico questions, hallucinations, pangs of pain up to ten on the scale. Seven days elapsed, tests, more tests, scans, x rays, oh how much the body can endure.
Trumped up idiot takes his turn again in the spotlight, more talks of takeovers, this place and or that place. More people stand and say no, there is hope? Nope, there is just shuffling amongst the many, the faces the faceless, more people, more threats, Bang, nothing, Bang, bang… more nothing. He stands in the garden, gloves to warm his hands, two steps forward two steps back.
Homeless, hopeless, hate speech, hopelessness abounds. I am on the mend, the world perhaps not.
I write, I think, I explore, I discuss. Hopeless.
The sleepless nights and headaches appear to have faded, I can move now without too much fear of a back twinge.
Back to being able to walk the dogs, something I have to endure, slow plodding, like various movements on the world stage, hard, painful steps.
Pain, hopelessness, fear, wandering, hate, crime, brutal discussions, blame, mental pushing and pulling. There may well be gains and there may well be losses.
Bang, more dead, more damage, more hurt, hopeless. Perhaps there is hope, but how it shows up is possibly a little unsure at this stage. Sukiyaki, ‘look up’ smile and hold true to an expectation that you might do okay in this mixed up world, an old song from the sixties with renewed meaning.
Addendum
The sun is out today. It’s a lie, of course.
Outside the glass, the world is just one long, rhythmic bang. A skirmish here, five hundred dead there, and a politician at a podium shuffling his feet like a dancer who forgot the music. It’s all noise. Emotion masquerading as fact, while the faceless many just stare.
And me? I’ve been busy in my own private war. Seven days of clinical hell. Scans, x-rays, and the kind of pain that turns your brain into a hall of mirrors. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a doctor ask you the same question ten times while your nervous system is screaming at a ten. I’m mending now—physically, anyway. My back doesn’t twinge as much, and I can walk the dogs, though it’s a slow, agonizing plod.
Funny, isn’t it? I’m getting better just as the world decides to rot.
The news is full of trumped-up idiots taking their turn in the spotlight, talking about takeovers and borders while people shiver in the cold. It’s a landscape of hate speech and heavy boots. Two steps forward, two steps back. Bang. Nothing. Bang. More nothing.
I look out, and I see a dismal state of despair. But then I remember that old song—Sukiyaki. Look up. Smile. Hold true to the expectation that you might just make it through the wreckage.
It’s hopeless. It’s brutal. It’s a mess.
(A short, cynical laugh.)
But I think I’ll take the dogs for a walk anyway.
Abstract
Gold-leaf deception in the sky—a solar lie. Beyond the pane, the pulse is a metronome of skirmishes, a dance of shuffling feet on a stage of dry rot.
The body is a hall of mirrors, reflecting ten-scale agony into a clinical silence. We are mending in the ruins. The world is a landscape of heavy boots, marching two steps into the void, while the faceless many wait for the music to return.
Look up. The wreckage is wide, the spotlight is a bruise, but the leash is ready.
