my writing was much better when i was younger, a few years back every collection of words was sensuous and vivid, but i lack this because of the dampening frustration i connect with attempts to create. i am a pro at failures, or abandonments they should be called. memories of walking to my university campus building armed with strawberry coconut milks, snacks for the library, i really wanted to be academic, and prove that i had a brain worth using, but i got tricked by myself, you see.

i would sit and flick through hundreds of images, illustrations and photographs i wish i had taken, photocopied them, compiled them, trying to pluck out inspiration, i wanted so badly to work, but i was bogged down in external worries, too concerned with people watching me. social media had its vice grip round my throat, nothing was worth doing unless someone was there to 'like' it. what is a life if there isn't commentary, what is the point, did it really happen if i didn't document it?

i was also sodden with anxiety, all rife through my body, inescapable doubt and a desire to get sucked in by any soul that would have me. always fascinated by human sexuality, i would cry out to be touched, only so i could fixate on the aftermath of intimacy. i would read erotic accounts, i adored skin. i would write down the different ways i was debased, all the little rejections and dry stale kisses in the middle of the night, every sheet twisted, every time i wished i was somewhere else, anywhere but under the weight of his body.