According to my mother i started saying “i love you” when i was barely 3 years old. Mostly when it was bedtime i think I confused it with “goodbye” or maybe with “I really wanna see you when I wake up again”.

I still do, love confuses me or maybe i confuse it ?

Love…

Endearing in its ideation, Infuriating however it falls on the human race.

I’m not good with love, nor in love and I doubt i can be around it.

I admire it, i do. I think about it, I write about it

But I’m never in the same page with myself when it comes to it. So we came to an agreement: one rule : never reach out to touch.

I’m lovable, that much I know…

But my love is only a reaction that’s is equal in force to the curse of my existence…

And so is my creativity, the restriction of my melancholy.

My spilled poems… my aborted children don’t resent me dear ones, i had no choice, but to give birth.

I have no rights.

Do you still want to talk about love ?

Once, i asked my mother: "Mama, do you remember what was the first thing you said to me when I was born?"

She said “you're going to be so loved”.

I think she cursed me with love…

•••

•Quotes: Fyodor Dostoevsky/Friedrich Nietzsche/Jean Rhys/ Maya Angelo /Franz kafka/ Louis Tomlinson/Albert Camus/ Michael Ondaatje/Louis Tomlinson/ Anne Sexton.

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Scott Noel, Telemachus and the Sirens. 2. philip geiger - hidell brooks gallery. 3. Albert Maignan Death of William the Conqueror, 1885. 4. Charles Pfahl Sunday Times. 5. Art by Brooke Shaden. 6. Art by Edwin Georgi