A certain somebody said not long ago ‘you live in ming’. Simple statement, and eminently true, and I know said in jest, but nevertheless never a true word and all. Don’t get me wrong I’m not insulted, rather scared to death. It’s just that feeling that you might not be the thing that they thought you were, despite the repeated warnings. You know those things, the things about you that you wish weren’t true and that you pray to something celestial (if you are that way inclined) nobody will ever find out. I suppose it’s a balance between wanting to be understood and not wanting to be heard farting, seen picking your nose or caught growing something horrible in your dustbin. And if you think about it it goes a little further, because as honest as we think we are we are still different when alone. I will never truly know everything about you, and to an extent I can never not be trapped in my little skinbox (that’s demands a strange mental image.)
As an aside, isn't this painting lovely?
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