I was born in distrust. Its place in my heart well nurtured—suckled on a diet of disappointment, failure and even success. Dancing with wanton desire over my flesh bound landscape, its rhythm—a dirge of endless need—beat upon my soul, demanding, berating; denying until finally its sustenance grew thin. I no longer fed its wants.
Aged footsteps, the pattern of their dance exists even now: a contour of hills and valleys, steep precipices and jagged arêtes. I explore these slopes and dig deep within their geology. They no longer scare me, these shadows from the past, but support and sustain me.
The call of the seagull pulls me forward: a longing, a search for that which is not yet held but faintly discerned in my heart. A sweet siren of hope; melancholic notes of coming home.