why is it poets and artists and makers and creators and the dreamers and the seers are obsessed with documenting and describing the ocean? how is it that there are endless metaphors in which the ocean fits ? is it because the ocean gave us life ? or is it because the ocean is in fact life. Moving, but always where you expect it to be. Dangerous, but tamed.
imagine the guilt you feel when you clip you mums ankles with the shopping trolley in the supermarket. now imagine feeling that same amount of guilt over something as small as remembering you forgot to turn your bedroom light off before you left the house. that’s anxiety.
the photographs we took were going to form a story of how two friends found each other again and got out happily ever after. tonight they’re telling the story of how you’re sorry you broke my heart but desperately need things to be okay
someone on the underground was wearing your cologne. the smell of it made me vomit in my mouth. not because the thought of you made me feelsick but, rather the thought of me never being yours.
