spiritual

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Picture this:

I’m rolling through reality on my trusty power chair a chrome beast with more personality than most people I know. Long hair streaming behind me like a warning sign, beard untamed, sunglasses big enough to block out the Ministry of Nonsense. Cowboy hat perched low, casting a permanent shadow over my don’t-give-a-toss expression, the battered leather of my biker jacket carrying the stench of rebellion and spilled coffee.

The world around me? Absolutely barking. Neon jellyfish floating past in the air, tentacles gently brushing the hats off unsuspecting pensioners. Pavements shifting under a river of rainbow tiles, each slab humming like it’s auditioning for Pink Floyd. Traffic lights blink in impossible colours—ultraviolet, emotional blue, a shade of green that smells like marmite and disappointment.

A pigeon with the head of Alan Watts tries to sell me spiritual enlightenment in exchange for my last Jaffa Cake. Dogs walk people, old buses sprout daisy wheels, and a marching band of mutant toads play “God Save the Queen” backwards as the soundtrack to this feverish promenade.

I glide on, parting crowds of goggle-eyed normies, the universe distorting in my rearview mirror. “Keep rolling, cowboy,” the universe whispers, “the weirdness isn’t going to witness itself.”

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

Ah, cognitive dysfunction—the brain’s equivalent of tripping over a flat surface. Was it all an illusion? Ghosts, UFOs, stealth fighters, and prophetic dread… or just my mind on a downward spiral into weirdness? Either way, I’ve decided to lean in, light a cigarette, and call it a vision.

The wind howled like a pissed-off banshee across the cliffs of Devon and Cornwall, sea thrashing violently like it just read the news. The sky? Grim as a tax return. Grey-blue, heavy, like the Earth forgot how to breathe. And then dusk hit—everything looked dreamlike and wrong, like we’d walked into a David Lynch version of Coastal Britain.

Front and centre, the Biker Prophet sat—glorious, grim, and slightly nicotine-stained—in his custom apocalypse-grade black wheelchair. A perfect marriage of biker attitude and Mad Max tech. Chrome flashed menacingly. Leather straps held him like a pagan king ready for war. His jacket, part-open, clung to a body that had long ago said bollocks to surrender. His long dirty-blonde demi-wave hair lashed around his face, which wore a goatee and the expression of someone who’s seen the void and found it wanting.

One hand clutched the wheel—his war-chariot. The other? A cigarette, of course. Smoke curled like forgotten omens. Dog tags hung from his hand like relics of battles fought, both real and psychological.

Then there was Albertine—perched on her Bonneville like a leather-clad Valkyrie from 1977. Brown demi-wave hair, curves wrapped in attitude and zips, and the kind of expression that made traffic lights change just to get out of her way. She wasn’t posing. She was the pose.

Up above, a black stealth fighter cut across the sky like a glitch in the simulation. It shimmered, bent the air, then buggered off to wherever secrets go to die. Probably to report to some intergalactic committee on whether Earth’s ready for a toaster revolution.

The Dragstar 1100 grumbled in the background. Another ghost. Another beast of the past. And yet, he smiled.

“I had to no longer ride,” he muttered. “I cried, but no one heard me. Except the universe. And maybe Valhalla.”

But he came back. and Converted the bike, hello trike, I Converted fate.

“Started riding in ’75. Rode into ’2022. Then I hacked life and rolled on. Now it’s 2025, and I’m still bloody here. Old as fuck. Still kicking.”

Motörhead blared from somewhere. Tarot cards appeared. Palm readings followed. The biker prophet and Albertine—two relics of chaos—just were. Married 42 years, bonded by madness and music.

And in the sky—symbols. Like ancient software updates from the gods. Runes. Scripts. Or maybe just birds that got too poetic. Either way, something was coming.

                “The Biker Prophet Saw It Coming.”
              “Cognitive Dysfunction? Or Divine Glitch?”
       “They Thought He Was Broken. He Was Becoming.”
        “When the Sky Spoke, He Was Already Listening.”


             “The views in this post are based on my personal    
            experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

                        🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌