I used to live on the edge between the real and the poetic.
I still find myself surprised as to how did I manage to go from this – the one man adventure – into fear. I know who did this, yet I don’t know how. The artifacts – photos, mostly – serve as a way to pull myself out of a living hell. They serve as proof that I contain multitudes – and I can reach out to them as I need. That no matter how hard someone tries to cut me off from the very essence of life – I do have some sort of grasp that lets me get it back.
I have been hurt, badly. There’s a whole cautionary tale to be told about abuse – but that’s for another time and place. I’d rather this story be about the good things that happened.
