obsession

Meeting someone you haven't seen in many many years is strange enough, and the confession of long ago obsession, the realisation that oblivious unaware, I never knew, is more strange too. Looking back, we were all shy and insecure, never thought we were worth loving. Though these days it still rarely crosses my mind, that someone might like me, it's not for the abject misery that then coloured my perception.

The wise gin-soaked words that I can't quite remember came later, in the dark by the fire, maybe after midnight, but for me they belong to this day. About conviction and obsession and that it's a struggle to accept that when you make art it's for yourself only. I wish I could remember them, I wish I had written them down, before I reeled off into the gin-soaked swirly dark night.