Hi, I'm a buddhist who has been Christened and who sneaks into an Anglican cathedral when my head gets too loud.
It's always deserted.
I can walk around this cathedral for ages and most of the time, I never see another soul.
Somewhere in between the sound of my feet on stone flags that have seen so many years and the absolute still of these cavernous room, it gets quiet in my head again.
I can breathe easy.
The only reason that I write is because it all gets far, far too much.
The only reason that I write is because that is what I do when I can't make sense of anything.
My words are not pretty. They are not art. The words that I write are my panic stations, my car alarm, my code red, code red, code red.
See, he asked why I never wrote about him.
But he was the thing that made sense. His fingers fitted through mine, it made sense. His laugh was the answer to the questions I wanted to ask, it made sense. His voice-
It made sense.
He made sense.
He quietened my deafening heart.
