CXLIII

14/9: I miss you everyday, if not in waking them in my dreams. 

[Image: Barbara Palvin and Jordan Barrett for C Magazine Sep '17]

CXXXVI

17/8: Waiting. Always waiting. Waiting for you to call me back. Waiting for you to want me back. Waiting for you to do anything, really. Speak, text, call, write, touch, ask, look, speak, arrive. Be. With me. I could be waiting my whole life. 

[Image: Unkown]

CXXI

19/4: Its the qualitative value of things that get me. That move me. It's almost impossible to explain to a quantitative person, because I am not one of them, and they are not one of me. I walk into a place of worship and I wonder at the lives touched and the depth of experience, no need to convince me of the foot traffic. What does that mean for spiritual awakening anyway? Give me a room of beautiful, abstract, crafted evidence of a visionaries existence and I will stop and stare. No price tags needed. No pathways to tangible outcomes highlighted. There couldn't be, there are none, none that could be vocalised at least. I love the feel of things, not on my skin but on my senses, on my beating heart. How do you measure that? The quickening of blood. Not without stripping the romanticism out of it. I hear something I like and I cling to it - a word, a sound, a near-inaudible fragment. It means something to me. Because life means something to me, and the way I live it, and with who, and why, and how, and where, and when, and with how much vigour. It all means everything. But who could understand, unless they already knew.