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These are some questions I've been sitting on for a little while, and right now seemed like the right time to put them out into the universe. Spending time sitting with each question, and working through each question, then sitting with each answer is something I both dread and look forward to. But why should I dread my answers? They're my truth. I'm working toward being more vulnerable and learning not to be scared of what I might find within. This little online workbook is as much for you as it is for me. Feel free to jump into it, or run from it. What does it mean to love someone who may not be right for you, may not be healthy for you, may not provide positive energy? Someone who doesn't bring everything you want into a relationship? What does it feel like to be in love? What makes you sure of it? What makes you want to commit? What gives you closure? Why does it take a different amount of time to move on from/let go of each relations
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love: by an artist/aries

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How much can Napisan fix? How much are you supposed to cry over a break up? How much time looking at homewares in K-Mart and IKEA are you allowed to do without being classified as insane? Asking for a friend. Artists of all descriptions have this really special ability to dive really deep into their feelings. And quite often the more upsetting ones are the ones we dwell on and sit with. Heartache is good for nothing but the arts. We create the most from our sadness. On top of that though, there's love . It's pretty fucking dreamy and nice and joyous and exciting (and terrible on your nerves) and distracting and liberating. It's also a great feeling to explore as an artist. A lot of people will create floaty, flowery pieces of work to celebrate love. Me included. However a couple of months ago I birthed this piece of work. Here she is. In all her angry, aggressive, agonising glory.
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Where else will I see you? In a museum that's showing an exhibition we both want to see. A library, staring at books, staring at each other – my arm around your shoulders. A coffee shop, sharing a pot of tea, me itching to reach out to hold your hand. I was never allowed to touch, so I settled for sending text messages at midnight and sending your favourite flowers to your doorstep. Where else will I run into you? I’ve seen you once this year – at a concert. We stood right next to each other at the bar. I thought I was going to die. You didn’t look my way. I couldn’t look away. Where else would I see you? In another city? In another life? Maybe this one wasn’t meant for us. I dredge up the past, beat myself up, and cut myself down. I stare at developed photos of you that I keep in envelopes and allow myself to cry for weeks. Memory lane is the only street that allows us to exist because no one else did. It allows me to acknowledge that I
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