I write a thing about pain and hunger. One masquerading as the other. I write about not knowing. Not knowing whether eating will soothe or amplify the pain. I write that this dilemma is analogous to my relationship with creativity.

Sometimes I hunger to write, other times there is just pain. Sometimes the making/writing sates, other times it is a folly. Writing/making is ultimately an attempt to be seen by myself; understood. It is an attempt to give shape to feelings, and externalise my inward sense.

WRITING

I stopped smoking – three weeks ago now. I had smoked for over 12 years. The doctor said I’d end up with a colostomy bag.

I make brownies compulsively.

I have new flat mates. One old flat mate is now at a new flat, the other is traveling. I suppose they’re just friends now.

I’ve been on some dates. I so fear rejection, it’s terrifying, and yet I mustn’t fear. And I must be myself. It’s imperative.

Blossom.

I garden for a bit of money, and I draw. I’ve been making pots too, pots are solid things.

Like my friends. A friend held me as I cried. I cry more often now, I like that.

Do you pity me? You mustn’t. Pity yourself.

A tentative smile through winy teeth at a bar.

I’m quite sure I’m hungry.

Josh