Smoke and Mirrors

So this is how it goes: one door opens, another closes. We paint in riddles because they look so much better than white lies. I was supposed to be at a class chalet, but spent Saturday night in another room.

There is nothing in this world like the first shock of skin. Yet I realise that I'm not so much in love with intimacy, as I am with the idea of it. This must be the ultimate isolation: to be just a breath away from another living mind, unable to cross the pillow's width of dead space.

Why do we scatter our thoughts across different pages? Or slip from one world to another, learning to be as effortless as the transition from air to water? We can be such brutal creatures, especially to ourselves. But you must know this: I will always risk that dive.