I keep having recurring memories of looking out the Sacred Heart window each Sunday of my young life, whilst an inmate of the now notorious Goldenbridge industrial *school*. The template just keeps replaying over and over in my brain. It is so very painful to deal with it. I just wish the flashbacks would go away altogether and stop haunting me and making me so angt-ridden. However they quite frankly refuse to do so. It’s almost as if the memories are saying… well, unless you decide to confront what you see whilst looking outside the Sacred Heart dormitory window, you will be forever distracted and confused and ill at ease with everything and everyone. The intrusiveness interferes with current thoughts. I keep making associations with past and present difficulties. So, so utterly conflictual and disturbing that it seems as though my head is spinning and spinning and spinning over and over as the recurring memories of looking out the Sacred Heart window takes over completely. The loneliness and isolation and subsequent damage that stems from these perpetual flashbacks are likened to a car that keeps clashing and crashing in on me and causing mayhem. I feel so helpless to find the way out of the horrible wreckage. I have no compass to guide me, or the strength to hoist myself out of the broken shattered windows to safety. Like a voice in the wilderness I cry out, but it just goes on deaf ears. The party-goers in the distance are too distracted with having their own fun, they appear not to notice the screams of the victim. Like a voice crying out in the wilderness too I plead to be freed from the carnage. Like a voice in the wilderness I create an echo-chamber effect with my screams, so that they might just reach the ears of some compassionate passers-by. But no, the nightmares have no recourse. They intend to plague me forevermore. Now, wait… what exactly do I see when I look out the Sacred Heart window every Sunday as a child in Goldenbridge? I see a very bedraggled poor looking man in a long dark coat. He is limping badly to one side. He drags his bad foot along slowly behind him with the aid of a crutch. You see, he has a big block extension added to one of his shoes which causes difficulty in walking. He has to walk up the big long Goldenbridge avenue. I feel his every step as he slowly moves up nearer the wicket [wicked] gate – to left outside of image. He has a big brown parcel tucked under his arm. He is the epitome of kindness. I know that he is on his way up to visit his daughter as he does so without fail every Sunday. He is such a gentle-looking character. I know that his daughter is only too eager to see him. I know too that he loves her very much as she portrays different characteristic traits to those of us who never have visitors. She radiates of something that is so alien to the rest of us who have no family contacts. That something is… a gentle smile. Her face beams when her number is called out to see her visitor in the nearby villa attached to the institution. As I look around me in the long Sacred Heart (colloquially known as the wet-the bed) dormitory that smells of stale urine, I see rows of long-iron beds. I see too that the sleeves of my jumper are wringing wet from the tears that have profusely flown because there was no poor kind man with a bad limp to come and visit me. I never knew the kindness of any man, excepting most of those whom I encountered when I stayed with a host family from Boyne St.