Sometimes I get into that place, where we all find ourselves at one point or another, and we evaluate ourselves and our position in the world - how much we might just mean, and to whom. It's a self deprecating place to let yourself get to, because in truth, we can never be honest enough with ourselves. It's been programmed through years of 'not thin enough not clever enough not fast enough not hard enough' until we know only the sharper forms of modesty, the ones that cut deeper than anybody else ever really could. All of a sudden I find myself wanting - no, needing - to devour somebody else's thoughts because I can't handle my own. I go to bookshops and spend all the money I've ever made on Charles Bukowski novels and Billy Collins collections and works of fiction that only get me because of the colours on the cover. I spend as long looking at picture books as I do with the words because it's all another form of insane, desperate communication. I love that form of uncertainty that comes with staring at a picture of another person, that looks just like the last, and not only guessing but knowing who and what they are to each and every person that's ever graced this earth. Maybe I'm so disappointed with things because I'm not able to communicate anymore. I've gotten quieter and quieter only I'm thinking more and harder about things that I never even imagined could have existed five years ago. I think it's so beautiful - being able to speak and to understand the looks in other people's eyes, the quiet clarity that comes with knowing another soul better than you do the taste of bread and butter. Being able to understand and to feel connected in some innate but unrecognised form. I have lost that part of myself somewhere now. I can't write. I can't draw and I can't paint. I can't take photographs and I can't knit and I can't sew and I can't use my scissors and I can't use my glue. No inks stain my fingertips and no paints cling to the fabric of my shirts.