A familiar place (II): Twisted

It's started again. The writing. The one that doesn't stop. That comes out of feelings that twist into shapes I can't imagine but I know are there. Shapes that colour time as it passes. That give no form and no refuge. Sanctuary that I deny and has been denied of me. Reflections that show no deeper than what is not there, and plough uncertainties into insecurities, and insecurities into anxieties. Shelter shifts away from me, stealthily so. I write myself out. But the shapes do not.

"Must we pray so that God exists?"    

Original graffiti found on Parisian streets

Photos and text by Shannon Low