I’ve given you all that was important to me, 

now those things have lost their importance 

only the act of giving them to you is important. 

giving to you like falling on a sharp knife. 

quick, gutting, tender.

needs

The most natural of our desires is need, but all we do, as informed by the media, is act like we don't need it; it’s all need, all of life.

Whether that need be money, love, sex, stability, or attention.

I often approach work for a need or sense of community, and while noble, sometimes it mutates and spills over into other needs, but the root of most work is capitalistic exchange. How can I be truthful to myself and others or expect others to be truthful to me when money is involved?

Franco Bifo Berardi puts it best: "Industrial production puts to work bodies, muscles, and arms. Now, in the sphere of digital technology and cyberculture, exploitation involves the mind, language, and emotions to generate value—while our bodies disappear in front of our computer screens."

I think our honest desires disappear, too. What do you think?

I recently achieved a significant goal; now is the time to invent new goals. It’s always been easy to think of and desire material goals such as jobs, internships, and projects.

I seek to nurture emotional goals to live much more profoundly and embodied, to feel. It is easy to be consumed with something, in my case, working in the arts, occasionally people. I work quickly to close the gap between the two: capital needs and emotional needs. Being an adult and having a body and responsibility for myself is tedious. But what little hope I have in finding the median exists in the quote from Audre Lorde:

"The power of deeply sharing pursuits with others forms a bridge that transcends differences and strengthens bonds."

How can I create an ecosystem in which these two deeply important things, such as money and community, can coexist gently? Sometimes, the question is all that is needed to live the answer.

style is dogma.

“Style is the answer to everything,
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing,
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it,
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.” — Charles Bukowski

According to Merriam-Webster, dogma is defined as an established opinion: a belief or body of beliefs concerning faith or morals laid down by a church.

Style, in the context of fashion, movement, writing, speaking, and art, reflects the architecture of identity. Personal style is used as both a sedative and stimulant, depending on the autonomy of the person. All this being said, Style is an extension of freedom and, in some ways, a tool. This should not be confused with modesty and markers of virtue, class, and attention-seeking behaviors.

Still, true style is presenting in a way that lays you bare. Everything becomes you.

You can quote me on that. The charisma of style transcends the status quo, whether the person is beautiful or full of a gal. Charisma as the art of saying the silent part out loud with no spare words. Truth is all I want to see; I expect the same from others. The freedom to speak the truth or exhibit it is inherently attractive because it is elusive. You can be completely naked and still be covered in the scum of dishonesty; isn’t that funny? A person with style can be completely nude in a t-shirt and jeans, a visible lace, or a misplaced strand of hair.

all about eve.

“You are perfect for Los Angeles, you know. You’re like the lady whom everyone’s in love with but they hate themselves for it because you’re all wrong. They don’t have anything to go on with you. No precedents. You’re voluptuous and too smart and too kind and too mean, and you give everyone just what they want and then you get sad and bland . . . I used to wonder why you dressed the way you did—one minute I see you in those old shirts and that scarf! . . . and the next you’re at some art thing and I see women look at you when you don’t know it and they’re all wondering how in the hell you did it. You glow.” — Slow days and Fast Company, Eve Babitz

mea culpa

"The pervasive habit of defining oneself as a victim has become the dominant note in American culture. ‘Mea culpa’ has given way to ‘I am a victim.’” —Camille Paglia, Cultural Critic.

I am a victim to myself on most days; this isn’t sad but empowering.

My grandmother from the Caribbean is Catholic. Whenever I have the chance to converse with her about her life, I hear about a few things: washing clothing in streams, God, and biting.

The Catholic urge to repent is hereditary. My definition of repentance is mea culpa. Often, the things that weigh me down most are things I haven't forgiven myself for. "Mea culpa" is Latin for "through my fault."

Mea Culpa" is often used in the Confiteor prayer, where the penitent confesses their sins and acknowledges personal fault.

Is a prayer for repentance not just a prayer for liberation?

Liberation of oneself from oneself?

The acknowledgment of fault allows freedom. It is relief-inducing because things are not happening to you; the world does not have a personal vendetta against you; you have the upper hand. It’s your hand.

Resentment, victimhood, and blame are alluring and seductive and can seduce you away from your freedoms.

Capacity for mistakes, the capacity of life to fill in the gaps. I would rather repent to myself for doing than repent for abstaining:

“Forgive me for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.” — Donna Tartt

It takes 8 minutes for the light of the sun to reach earth.

Similarly, it takes some time for my emotions to reach my mouth. 

"I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.” — Anaïs Nin

Part I.

What I do, I do from love. I investigate this under the zeal of insecurity. Recently, I’ve been thinking—what part of this thing called giving is a concealed attempt to receive?

I try to take a moment, a beat, often before I give, to investigate my motive and my attachment to the gift. Is this something that I will resent? If it is, that is when I stop.

This investigation is hard because I do love it. I love many things dearly and deeply, and I try to give love, admiration, or affection. I attempt not to give from pity or obligation, and I hope not to receive from those spaces either. I’m never indifferent. When I give, it gifts me a particular warm joy, a particular warm joy.

"I am never indifferent. Indifference or passivity are impossible for me.” — Anaïs Nin

Part II.

When I feel slightly rejected or disrespected, I give the gift of acceptance and silence, not for lack of passion but for the presence of compassion. Why let my insecurities dictate how I treat someone? My most violent act is leaving, and it is never done to inflict pain but to remove the infectious nature of insecurity.

I was once with a friend who said something incredibly unfriendly to me. “You spread your anxieties to everyone—giving it to everyone to deal with.” While cutting, some parts were true, and that’s when I decided not to let anxieties move me but to allow my passions to become leaders in my limbs.

Due to this, I am never thoughtless; I am deliberate and clinical—which may seem like a lack of passion, but to me, it is a presence of responsibility. I hope the middle ground will open itself up to me so that I can show my passion on my face and allow others to see me deeply. Until then, I will describe myself in the words of myself and others.

another friend.

Last summer, the thick blankets of the summer sun held me together. I remember I was with a friend who shared a similar uneasiness. He was in his last year of college and had changed much since the first day I saw him in the standard room with coils brushing his shoulder; he now had a buzzcut but the same crooked smile pointing to his life's humility. I forgot what he was studying, but I remember he wasn’t sure what to do with it. The fatigue of what to do with the rest of our lives pressed on us like damp heat. We spent the summer admiring the city's interior- from the vantage point of the train cars. The train is a great way to get to know someone you are traveling with. His gentle demeanor and bowed head, “Can I sit here?” came out of his mouth like a reflex. “Of course”. We were headed to an exhibition that a friend of mine modeled in. It seemed fun to do after work; he was an archivist, and I was a gallery apprentice. “We are really in the art world, aren’t we?” “Yeah,” the uneasiness persisted, but the cheer of having something to be proud of concealed it in our voices.

At this time, I wasn’t well-versed in the secret language of men. The pressing of my shoulders to show affection signals ownership. Eye contact that didn’t invite but cautioned.I didn’t know that my friend existed plurally within this world and my world of statements, inside jokes, and silence. We liked black and white films and other pretentious shit. Because of this understanding, we both acknowledge the invisible language between lovers and friends, nothing to be said but to be felt in the tilt of an eye, a matching in pacing.

I remember the acute way he denied any closeness or friendship with me during the later weeks. His attention coming in at slant accompanied me to dinner parties, standing toward each other, peering over the aisle of the train cars, standing against opposite doors, looking directly at each other, and pretending to be adults. We found ourselves in the gala garden, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the velveteen spirals leading to a pond, with flowers framing the walkway. As the hills incased homes we might never own, and a sea of gold light blanketed the city- we tried to identify the cities. When leaving drunk off free wine and affirmation. We took the trolly down to the bus stop as it pulsated with other 20-somethings embracing the last drips of ignorance they could indulge in. I remember thinking how drunk these kids are as my legs and body swayed; I couldn’t notice how close we grew to each other.

I could only see the rolling lights that blended with the pale blue shadows of the trees spreading out against the windows. I told him about the boy somewhere far and international and how I loved how his deep-set eyes reminded me of Tiger Stone, the handful of nice things he did for me before leaving. I brought up all of these bright glimmers of romance to my friend and told him about the parts that weren’t glittery, like this love's infrequent and slightly invasive nature. I don’t even recall the strangers leaving. I remember sitting at the bus stop. He again looked at me, cutting through the mist. He said, "I think you should stop loving him.”  I don’t think I said anything back.

some kick to em

"The summer passed like pages of some old book, dusty, venerable, and fragrant. There were hints of decay—the decay of antiquity, of something that had promise and once was cherished rotting. I hadn’t noticed I had grown a couple of inches in some measure that let me know I could let things go."

"A tender curiosity illuminated by moments of mutual attention that seep into your life like moonlight between shutters on a summer night. The curiosity grew critical and somewhat opaque and sterile."

"I have found many roads in which I am coated in the softness of being."

"I spent those days hanging out my window like a t-shirt on a line, allowing my mind to spindle and unwind to the thoughts of others in memory. I wished at this time to be like everyone else; in that way, I was like everyone else."

looming of flowers and knives, or being twenty four.

Part I.

I have found many roads on which I am coated in the softness of being human. There is something miraculous about being tucked away into love, infatuation, obsession, or whatever that state of being deeply affected is called by a job, person, or color. I think fondly of being deeply affected. I abstained from praying for perfection in love, life, and work. I wanted to stumble across moments and find it in the strangest places, like finding a pearl; I wanted to see it in faces, especially in others, and learn how to love people and things that weren’t made for me—the joys in my life to be a mosaic of moments brought to life. I wanted to rest knowing I looked, loved, and lived along the way. In that “living,” a sensitivity that brings pleasure and pain but, most of all, sureness. I want not just to ask as my grandmother did and wait for the signs of a perfect life but for the ideal equation of actions, words, and steps. My desire, or at least what I know of my desires, wasn’t ever for a destination but rather a journey—a well-educated life.

I guess collecting pieces along the shore of myself in the ocean of others. My wit came from missing something or someone, my courage from crying, my taste from a few teens I saw when I was twelve, and my confidence from every time I proved myself or someone wrong. The whiplash of these moments echoed everything I grew to love about myself.

Part II.

What I could articulate in most parts of my soul amounted to the same rattle as a cross-country cargo truck that has traversed many regions yet to deliver everything. This rattle sharpened on iridescent nights as red glows harshly splashed against trees lining empty streets. A thought that found me instead hauntedtine walks regar me on these roudless of location or season, was the acknowledgment of the incompleteness in my life, which I wanted to be filled. Fill. Fill in how the word fills the mouth when spoken, but what should it be full of? Fullness itself? I often impulsively filled my life and mouth with silence, so much so that my silence conveyed what needed to be heard most—the unknowing of what needed to be said most underscored this sense of halfness. I never know what to say, primarily what to write, how I feel in hindsight, so dormant that it causes an acute blunt pain. I had not been trained, if one could be trained in such a way, in the womanly charm, of saying so tiny that you almost close a door but leave it unlocked for exploration—a double speak of silence and sound. I felt that my unawareness of this way was all I had left of my childhood, and for some reason, I had no desire to shed this childlike disposition. And with that awareness, I suppose—dare say, almost in protest, if only to myself—to let curiosity predominantly guide my mouth and limbs filled with restlessness, satisfaction, and often silence.

Part III.

My friends do all sorts of things to fill up their lives. Speeding down streets slackened with rain. When I was a little less aware of what kind of life I wanted, we shared a sense of carelessness. There was a feeling; I didn’t have the patience to find the word floating in the air, and it fell to the streets, mimicking rain in these times. All this wetness, all this calm air, glittering streets, rushing cars, fun parties, I think, celebration and escape in the same outfit.

My coworker once told me we must not mention "happiness". I find, without mention, it sees different hues and depths, as do the definitions of aloneness shift. Melancholic is what I often describe myself as, due to the fact that I wish to be tucked away in a place not divorced from life but of sound, deep, powdery, and filled with comforting shadows, like hiding under a blanket. Some friends have helped me find that through artificial sensations—artifice is not seductive or romantic; it is just stuff to fill time with. I could feel the weariness of that type of life, love, and time dripping down my hands in the heat. I feel as if, at any moment, I could be transformed into some strange creature, unbeknownst to myself and others. Caught between the rapture of who I want to be, who I am, and who I can be. This time had become an assessment of capacities; a test came in blooming the flowers and knives. Self-destruction doesn't feel as seductive as age; power is in resilience, survival, and the simplicity of a well-lived life. I fear I have fallen out of step with the artificial—no more painted stares and strange conversations; no more limp limbs, words, and living.

Part IV. And here is my great revelation:

The most natural of our instincts is to need, but all we do, as informed by the media, is act like we don't need; it’s all need- all of life, isn’t it? It all rests on the need to explore, the need to be felt, and the necessity of pain.

I genuinely want to live as close to the surface of my face as possible.

Franco Bifo Berardi puts it best: "Industrial production puts to work bodies, muscles, and arms. Now, in the sphere of digital technology and cyberculture, exploitation involves the mind, language, and emotions to generate value—while our bodies disappear in front of our computer screens." I think our honest desires disappear, too. What do you think?

malignant shame, malignant grief?

You've heard of malignant shame, but what about malignant grief?

Malignant shame, first defined by Irish psychiatrist Dr. Garrett O'Connor, is the persistent feeling of shame generally experienced by individuals who have endured oppressive parental relationship dynamics, resulting in a constant sense of guilt. Northwestern University expanded on this concept in 'Malignant Shame and Stereotypes in Irish,' drawing a connection between oppressive colonial governments and the residual effects of shame from colonial rule. Due to the nature of colonialism, which involves psychological and cultural belittlement of those living under siege, the notion is that nothing before colonial rule has inherent importance or goodness, and the victims are seen as being saved.

This is why I can't smoke weed. Every time I do, I become acutely aware of myself and my existence as a person who can die. I can relatively dismiss death as something that lies in the future, but the anxiety induced by weed makes me face the reality that it exists, and I am not excluded from its inevitability. In the reflective haze, I come to a more ominous conclusion: everything I love will one day die.

I think the root of this is colonialism. Everything is colonialism's fault. I'm not alone in this thought pattern. In 'Understanding the Impact of Historical Trauma due to Colonization on the Health and Well-being of Indigenous Young Peoples: A Systematic Scoping Review,' the term 'disrupted attachment' frequently comes up. Disrupted attachment involves the fragmentation of a child due to mass genocide or racial violence. This was first formally observed in Holocaust survivors and proven to be, in some instances, hereditary, contributing to post-traumatic stress disorder. This was later expanded to include Historical Trauma, defined by Evans-Campbell as 'a collective complex trauma inflicted on a group of people who share a specific group identity or affiliation.'

When coupled with the observation of a culture that becomes willfully empathetic or apathetic depending on the cult of public opinion, especially in the persistent belief that human life is overall disposable or at least the framing that it is. The influx of crime television shows or medical dramas wherein people die and that becomes a plot device, and the commonality of death reduced to shallow violence without suffering—all these memetic worlds create a haze where it's easy to forget that death is not as clean as portrayed in entertainment. This is where malignant grief comes in; it is not the realization that individuals will die, but the realization that I will suffer as a result.

The people I love, and I would hope the people you love are individuals that are inherently one of a kind. The comfort, joy, and even sometimes pain they bring into our lives are irreplicable—so when they are no longer here in a physical living form, no one will ever replace them or the feelings they uniquely bring. When I was a child, I thought about this often, as for many years of my life, I was the only child in a house of adults, and I was aware that the likelihood of them passing before me is higher than me passing before them. This awareness followed me like a hound—I call this malignant grief. This feeling has transformed as I’ve gotten older, but this anxiety led to avoidance not just within my family but within friends. I rationalized that if I spend most of my time alone, I can shield myself from this impending grief. Growing in age and maturity, I realized this is counterproductive. However, when I smoke weed, it all comes back. This is why I do not smoke weed, even though I tried when I was a little younger (freshman year of college).

I say this because I wanna coin the term and give everyone something to think about during thanksgiving- enjoy your loved ones but also fuck colonialism.

a slight cultural criticism of the current (several friends) understanding of love with my limited understanding of love.

It’s very human to love, so here is a definition by Artificial Intelligence: 'Love' is a complex and multifaceted emotion that can take many forms. It’s often described as a deep affection or connection to someone or something. Love can exist in various relationships, such as romantic partnerships, friendships, familial bonds, and even connections to activities or places.

And, as that definition embeds the capacity for nuance, love has been defined and redefined through the ages by both lovers and intellectuals. A through line of understanding can be found upon the word being brought up. Interpretation relies on cultural context and is often rooted in our first experiences of love. Many individuals define love as knowing, but the real question is, is love about knowing or seeing? Is it active or idle? Does it rely on isolated experience or expression?

These questions are different for everyone but depend on the recognition of the other. A question that arises is how does the distortion of the other invalidate the existence of love?

As my friend says, “Being loved means being seen at an incredibly deep level,” but is that not just attention? This is not to undermine the importance of attention, as Simone de Beauvoir famously says, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” But is attention love? I don’t believe so. I’d argue consumerism has impacted our views on love, as to see is to consume. Content, stimulation, and to know and to be defined is to cease to exist. Individuals may be predictable, but that calls into question: Are we our words? Are we our habits? Or are we ourselves?

David Finch once said (and I am paraphrasing) about the closure of a series or film, to understand the film, “the moment we get closure, the [film] ceases to exist in our minds.” Our attention, our curiosity vanishes because we have consumed it. Even the wisest of us are doomed to the redundancy of attention, not to mention the burden it places on us and our partners to always see.

We only see what people show us, and even then, it is cast by a film of what we are indoctrinated to think about them. We cannot expand the prison of cultural context because we are being fed identities from every aspect of our life that inform our impressions of individuals. Who we see is a collage of who we are told to see, who we want to see, and truly who we are ourselves.

For this reason, I believe love, or at least the kind of love that I regard highest, is curiosity accompanied with regard for another. Regard, as defined by Merriam-Webster, means 'to show respect or consideration for.'

This brings me to last summer sitting on a stranger's lawn with a friend. We were talking about the dichotomy of love and lust. He thought they were one and the same, or at least that is what I took from his comments. Lust, as defined by me, is frivolous desire to see and touch. This, in no way, invalidates it as an intense emotional state, but again, it feels closer to Scopophilia, 'The love of looking.' Can a word define itself? The love of something is the consideration of it, even if only for oneself. The love of another, in the consideration for another, demands to look at oneself. It is no longer rooted in consumption but in cultivation.

The love of friends, or your love of friends, family, and romantic partners is the art of seeing yourself and improving for the consideration of something that can be and has the capacity of being affected by you—not consumed.

I am unsure if that’s the sexy answer but its what I’ve deduced or at least what I’ve deduced about the type of love I have a preference for.

date

All a matter of timing. Things becomes unclear if the timings off. He told me that this had been the best conversation he had this year, for years. I’ve had good conversations all week. He hadn’t asked about my week, or my day- or even my life. He looked into my eyes and saw a place where he could store his dreams. His dreams, his sadness, all his will like cataracts. Maybe its nerves, it is a first date after all.

forever dolphin love.

LA has been divorced from whimsy.Droves of displaced people appeared in every corner of the 44 miles of the city. Whether house-less or homeless, think about what that means. Everyone is an occupation or lack there off. Day time jobs dont count in the corner of the bar , only zodiac signs, aspirations and things most can't live off of like talent. Quantified little cul de sacs of being. It became easier that way, to anticipate betrayal or love. Silent judgments arose in me, I didn’t even know I was judging until I started to move in a way to lose people in a crowd. Los Angeles was a city of the starved whether it be attention, love, or food. I don’t know when I became my job, but it happened after I got one I was proud of. Litters of little proud moments slip out, some stories of romance others of heroism emerge over shared silence, wine, weed, and in between the bumming of cigarettes. The land of the free had various Gods, chaperoning decisions. At the heart I could see written on most peoples faces a desire to do good. To do something good- to be something good. I don’t think Hollywood’s promises will ever fade from the western imagination or be fulfilled by the global intellect.

Caught between the thoughts of myself and others somewhere in a bar, with low red humming lights and the rumble of a band I don't really care to listen to. A voice  whispers “Have you ever been in love?”, “No.” I say with no thoughts. It's so easy to lie about love. I have been in love and I want to talk about it now. I remember it was terrifying. I remember when he described my art as a “rapture” once, I had to google it.He redefined it for me— a feeling of intense pleasure or joy. Its always been framed as the beginning of the end. the end of being alone didn’t cross my mind. I don’t know if it was really love. I still love him in whatever mossy way I feel about the word. Young and still learning the weight of my actions. It was all stupid, surreal, and sardonic. He read to me in the back of a Ford fairlane with hard plastic seats. He read a book about amputated limbs and lost love, but I can't remember the name. He showed me how to look at the moon, kissed me to shut me up, cupped my face in a way to remind me I had one. Peppered my face with kisses, I was always so resistant to being beautiful— especially then. It is such a strange space that lives in me. Our secret sharing of the same road doesn't help. 5 moles on his face, one on the cheek, another below the eye, another somewhere near his jaw. I can't remember the exact arrangement to match the 5 on my body, 2 under my arms , a tiny one tucked right below my eyebrow, 2 more that I won't disclose. I looked for his eyes in others, for years. We read each other’s minds, we had lived cities apart, with common childhood friends houses apart. We loved the same song covered by a different artist, Forever Dolphin Love. Our lives delicately traced the same ley lines, a cadence mirrored in the way he traced my palms. I can’t hate him no matter how much I’d like- I’ve tried. I hated me for loving him, I hated me for hating him. Loving him— I know I was supposed to. Suppose , I was supposed to? Makes it easier to let go, the idea of  fate. I still remember his arms crossed looking at me over a car door, or when he sent me “This Boy”by Hiroshi Satoh. Whenever I see someone fill his stencil, I think I'm in love again. He made brown eyes rare but I saw little pieces of them everywhere like warm honey , carnelian, or orange sunsets. But it wasn't really love, it wasn’t really anything. I think that’s what makes it so sweet. 

being. black.

malfeasance besets burnt umber flesh. abhorrent evils that trample a prosperous lot,

a past colored in potent red 

with rage that runs deep into the walls of all black bellies ,

yet laughs still the bubble to the top like fizz in champagne and sea foam in a versilia tinted ocean

the music continues to whistle, kissing ears 

blessed people are granted the courage to laugh when one can , and cry when one must 

quiet reading

Quiet coats me like snow, but it melt into me, and it nourishes everything that has died. Cool streams of silence wakes up dormant words, past irony, post modern. I play with silence, I think loudly and hope someone hears,I hope you do.

interview with the reader

I.If you care only for people who look like you- do you care about anyone at all?

II.If you care only for people who think like you- do you care about anyone at all?

III.If you care only for people who speak like you- do you care about anyone at all?

IV. If you care only for people who live like you- do you care about anyone at all?

V.If you care only for people who pray like you- do you care about anyone at all?

VI. If you care only for people who relate to you- do you care about anyone at all? 

VII. Do you care about anyone at all?

VIII.Do you care?

IX. At all?

X. Do you?

waj

All the things that don’t belong. The pressure rest on orbital bones.Thoughts cause a trickle behind ears. Heat gives swiftness to pace. Need , kneads words together- drags them through salt, sugar and spice- flavored expression. Seething- sanitizes anything that isn’t yours, don’t carry what’s not yours. Stoke it ,burn it slowly. Run on that waj, feed it love.

snapshot

Black coffee, Portuguese novels, tin fish and loose leaf tea. Music from 10 years ago, friends from then bubble up. I wonder how so-and-so is, I wonder- wonder, the next best thing to quietly seating with someone. A compliment is paid, with no receipt needed. To glance at them asleep waiting a til their chest rises, another day. A day filled with subtlety.

Google, how do I start the before the count of zero? Google does speaking in riddles count as another language? West Africa starts before 1, the beat starts before 0, at least the drums.

Yo ja anvoyé mitin-an jis lòt simenn [ they have postponed the meeting until next week] , what about next month, what about next year ? The next life. Its the fleeting nature of others.

I know, I  hope, I know, I hope- faith exist before 1. 

Yo ja débawé chimen-an èk mwen sa pase, débòdé! [they’ve opened the road and I can pass, overflow!]

Simple black coffee, but black coffee and “El Camino De Mi Alma“ by Hermonos Guitérrez paired with a Pablo Neruda poem about something usual, like a tuna in a fish-market, an apple for breakfast, or love. The usual.

apricity

I don’t even know the outline of the word bold, I’m accustomed to tracing paper, flower petals, soft served ice cream and hot espresso. I’m fond of wet grass sticking to my thighs to remind of where I rested. I’m realizing I don’t like things , especially harsh light. I like soft glows, The warmth of the winter sun, I’m becoming a soft person. Genteelness grows on me like moss. The passing of cars,the dew, the steam rising off of coffee. When I look at softness, I always feel touched. Passing time feel like the blushing of cheeks- everything becomes a pleasure.

fear

If I told the truth,I’d say I’m afraid, afraid enourmousity of it all. I wonder if everyone is as constantly consumed seriousness of it all. I think to a certain degree we all are. Between September and February I found myself sick often , which gave me the time to acknowledge the amount of fear I’ve been holding on to.