I have a habit, when I am alone, of making myself vulnerable.
I exist on the brink of tears
and my heart throbs with tender yearning
as I absorb the beauty of other peoples’ artwork.

Hard armour melts into soft blanket
which slips away,
leaving me exposed to the world.

This experience is religious.
The pages of John Berger exist as my prayer mat;
the voice of Keaton Henson my choir.

I pass each work through my hands like beads of a rosary.
I become somehow heavy with emotion,
yet light with passion.

The plucking of strings can send shivers up my spine,
and beautiful prose lifts the hairs on my arms.
How is it that an artist can create such a physical reaction
using nothing more words,
or paint?

I have a habit, when I am alone, of making myself vulnerable.
But only then does the world make sense…