As a writer, I am endlessly jealous of performers, who can interact with their art, who can invite others into their sanctuaries. I take photos because I feel it's the closest I can get to being sharing my dreams and my ideas with someone else. Why do I write? My hands always have to be moving, changing making. I don't trust my voice, it falters, goes quiet when I need it the most, gets lost in a fucking forest of feeling.

Thing is, I care so much about art, more than you might imagine when you see me writing essays about gender distinctions and the anthropology of religion. I spend hours searching the internet and books for beautiful images, for haunting eyes and soft hands. I cry when my own pictures don't convey what I feel - even more when I can't work out what it is that I feel.

Maybe I'm just lonely and I use art to keep myself company and remind myself what love feels like.

The question is, will I ever feel good enough? Will I ever feel as though I've captured what needs to be captured? Or is art a never ending thirst, an eternal search, a fucking hero's quest for something more?