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John Kenn
Only love is all maroon
Gluey feathers on a flume
Sky is womb and she’s the moon
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My mum has a ton of photos like this. Just of run down houses lacking in love or time or effort, and in an owner that can provide all three. She used to drive around the countryside for days on end looking for little cottages like this and taking photos of them because she liked their stories. The stories that, she said, will never really be known because all we see when we look at these houses is a place that maybe once was pretty, once was a place of shelter and laughter, but now is only home to dust, ghosts and maybe the feculent corpse of a small rodent.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this but what I’m trying to get at, in a roundabout way, is that people are kind of like these houses (no I am no saying you are home to feculent rat corpses). When someone sees you they only see your outer appearance, your shell, your armor. No one sees your stories. That’s what your job is, to tell people your stories and to tell people who you are, because if you just coast through life silently without telling someone your stories then they might end up being told by someone else wrongly, or even not at all.
Personally I can’t decide which fate is worse.
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