We Should Not Accept Refugees

We should not have baths because we’ll probably drown.  Showers are out too because we will slip and fall, Crack our heads open and die.

We shouldn’t have a child because he could get very sick and die.

We shouldn’t enter into relationships because our partner could end up being  psychotic or abusive.

We should never go camping with friends because one of them might be a serial killer.

We shouldn’t be willing to help a fellow human in desperate need of help because one or two among thousands may be a bad person.

I tell my child to stand up to bullies, even when someone else is under attack which will redirect attention to him and make him a target.  We know that when enough people help the victims and stand up for what’s right, changes can be made.

But that has nothing to do with the refugees, right?

If suddenly a group of radical Canadian terrorists started murdering all Canadian citizens; my friends, my family and destroying my home, I would like to imagine that someone would be willing to help us in the ways that we can’t help ourselves.



Appreciate A Man’s Effort

Several times now I’ve seen an illustration on my news feed of a man who is walking barefoot across the sharp blade of a knife to get to the woman standing peacefully on the handle.  The caption tells you to appreciate a man’s effort since you have no idea what he went through just to keep you happy.

That, my friends, is not a good relationship.  It’s not healthy for the man and it’s not healthy for the woman.

I’ve drawn a couple of my own illustrations on how people should deal with relationship struggles.   20151110_13482820151110_135055

Quite frankly, no person in the relationship should be expected to endure suffering alone, nevermind just to keep his partner happy.


It seems to me that I can write words worthy enough to be read- and felt- by people.1447161967309

Thoughts that keep me up at night, words that twist and multiply within my scattered brain, ideas that haunt me- until I pick up a pen and a stack of papers and let them flow out of me.

My shadows have voices.  My demons feed me a horrid inspiration.  The fears that nip at my heels also smack creative thoughts into my head.  My coldness warms as the words spill out onto paper.

And it seems to me, that my inspiration, my thoughts, my ideas, all spill from my mind as I finally reach the content part of my life.  Without intense emotion, I am no longer able to mold and shape these words anymore.

Perhaps for happiness and security, I’ve needed to sacrifice the talent I needed to use for comfort and coping for so long.

This concept saddens me, but does not depress me; which is and isn’t the problem all the same.