Karen

Priya

Sam

Myself

It’s been a really crazy long-weekend, consisting of:

• badly cooked roast dinners
• midnight kissing
• Chicago! I’ve got the soundtrack pumpin’ away, and damn that film was good. Probably the best I’ve seen in a long time.
• Negative body representations
• Massive Attack’s “One Thousandth Window”
• Birthday plans. Someone’s fast approaching legal adulthood, y’know?

Yesterday afternoon we took a brisk walk, braving through the cold air, sheltering our cold ears from the raw winds of nature. The gritty driveway shone drearily as we exited the house and the mud tracks squashed beneath our feet as we entered a natural world – something I’m so seldom willing to visit these days. I’ve always been unlucky in the sense that my location of upbringing meant that I had close to zero interaction with other kids (other than my older brother.) On a more positive note, the blessing of living opposite a field is that behind my house lie acres of wilderness, untouched by man. As we strolled past a sandy farm, sidling up the beaten path with my arm around his shoulder, I realised that this is my first love. Funny feeling, most definitely.

It’s a strange sensation to realise that what you are feeling, discovering, and attempting to comprehend are a completely new set of emotions. These are raw, untouched and mostly unearthed – just like those surrounding elements as we stole a single kiss in the afternoon air. As we stood at the lookout point, the highest spot for miles, I realised how afraid I am of defining what this is. So frightened by saying this; that it’s my first time. I’m so used to playing the grown-up, sewing up the frayed edges of my family’s misdemeanours that perhaps I’ve forgotten how to take a breath, relax, and learn how to be me. I’m afraid to admit that I’m young, naïve, and I haven’t yet learnt the art of giving myself to someone else. The intimacy of sharing your thoughts, your veiled secrets and most scarily the one thing you truly own; your body.

I stood for a moment by the side of the road, staring into a muggy brown puddle. Gazing into my sepia reflection showing the face of a boy as if it were an old photo. Pointing out places where I had spent my early teens hiding, we embraced in the cold winds, heading in the direction of home. The tree where I’d spent hours devouring a book, lone benches where many a piece of prose has been composed, and hill points where I’ve sat under starry skies, discovering my own constellations for the first time.

Except this time, I was discovering my first love.

It’s been two weeks too long since someone swiftly swept me off my feet and swung their arms around me with a heartfelt hug. My room is a mess, littered with large photos strewn across the floor, sheets of paper in stepping stones from the doorway to my bed, and gift paper with requisite wrapping accessories closely near by. Time to tidy up, one would think.

Amazingly I’m a contributor to the next issue of 28mm.org. If you haven’t already checked out the current issue (or the first issue, for that matter), take a gander at the goodies on show. I’ve been slogging my guts out to rewrite the code for visua . foto, and you’ll notice new photos! Huzzah! So forgive me if I’m not feeling the most net active at the moment. I’m about to spend a long weekend with Brighton Boy. Bring on the sweet lovin’..