There's something about a quiet night and memories. If you close your eyes and allow yourself to float away for a moment- forget the worries and questions and emptiness that tie you down - just surrender yourself to yourself, do you see the life you want a little more clearly?



I've been thinking of the steps I've taken down the bylanes of 24 years. I say bylanes because they never fully occupied my interest; they remained whimsical offshoots- here now, gone a moment later - like snowflakes melting the second they make contact with skin. Guitar dreams. A voice thrown to a crowd, a sketch hurriedly executed, an eye perfectly shaped, anklets and dancing feet, a cake whipped up in glee, words given life with the swirl of a pen. An essay aching for its release, a laugh captured in sepia. Just steps. Yet my heart years to swing off its shoes and leap arms outstretched into waters warmed by a summer sun.



Isn't there something about an idea that's so much more attractive than the thing itself? The idea of being an artist. Sitting in an open field with casuarina trees in the distance, listening to the wind whistling through their fine leaves; everything around you toasted shades of mustard and deep green; an empty canvas begging to be exploited in hard passionate strokes. You're a tall sturdy man, with long strides and hair down to your shoulders. When you walk, you lead with your head, and there's a fire in your eyes that's both distant and comforting. When you laugh it's like your stomach opened up to your heart and your heart to your throat, and your throat to your lips, and your shoulders shake and your cheek dimples, and in a mad moment you throw your head back and your eyes twinkle.