But no, now I see I never meant to Ben what Ben meant to me. If there was anything I said which resonated in return, he found a better speech elsewhere. My romance went no further than his coat.
And I felt like such a failure. I thought: I can't even do mental illness properly.
My mother says: 'People who suffer from anxiety are usually those with the most vivid imaginations.
And yet, here I am. Perceiving everything that is wonderful to be proportionately difficult; everything that is possible an elaborate battle to achieve. My happy life was never enough for me. I always...
It happens so seldom; I must catch and keep this slender yearning, a rare beetle in a jam-jar trap. But mustering will is not the same as wanting. I lie in the garden and think about all the footsteps...
But I know I will do neither; nothing. I have all the time in the world, and yet, I can't be bothered.
So it's as if,' I say, 'I'm okay in my own bones, but I know that my bones aren't living up to other people's version of what a life should be, and I feel a little crushed by that, to be honest, a lit...
There really isn't much wrong with me,' I say, 'it's just that, well, I'm not like other people; I don't want the things they want. And this is not right, I mean, in other people's eyes, and I feel as...
I decided that if I didn't allow myself to fall asleep, then I wouldn't have to wake up again and despair.
My mother likes odd numbers and is suspicious of the even ones. She reads a new book every week and is bewitched by black holes in the universe. She describes herself as an optimist but she worries ab...
I see foxes often, but always they are crossing fallow fields in the distance. Gold flecks on faraway expanses of green. Magnetic to the meandering eye. Enigmatic, unreachable.
Blending into the tinctures and textures of the countryside. The tree which falls without any human hearing still falls, as the creatures who die without being found by a human still die.
Art, and sadness, which last forever.
You can't dance to paintings. This is something Ben said, during one of our White Cube conversations, back when I was still wrong about him. He said it even though, at the time, he was desperately try...
Now I wonder if each artwork is in fact utterly inaccessible to everybody but the person to whom it is secretly addressed?
How I adored to draw as a child, a teen; all my life before I began to try and shape a career out of it.
I love that an idea can be so powerful it doesn't matter whether I've seen the artwork for real or not.
I can't remember the name of the piece, or the artist. Maybe it wasn't even an artwork. Why must I automatically assume that every strange object is a sculpture, that every public display of unorthodo...
How easy to be electrocuted. How fine the line between beauty and peril.
In the face of immense tragedy—yet again—unexpected beauty.
