Notes from an old diary

16th May 2002

16.5.2002

I’m in my head a great deal at the moment. I’m walking around in the memory of childhood homes. Some no longer exist, as though the rooms and routes are tattooed onto the insides of my eyelids.

I miss these places, the person I was back then, the life of a child who knows no more (and who troubled themselves with nothing more) than what is right in front of them.

Swirling blue ink

I miss writing. I miss writing properly in my notebook (oppose to my phone’s notes’ app), getting lost in blue gel ink, the words forming their own shapes against lined paper with little conscious input from me.

My head has been turned with photography. It’s no bad thing; just a new way of being. I need to better weave those words with the photographs that often seem to tell my story better than I can in written language.