Balls of light, splashes of colour, my hands yearn for the ability to spread paint on a canvas, a support, a white surface, anything. I wish I could splatter all of these things that inhabit me out, about, around
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I'm not allowing myself to experience the compliments or attention I'm extended because I seem to believe, somewhere deep down below, that if I accept any of it I won't know how to be open to criticism anymore, that I'll get a big head and that I will come across as self-centred and righteous
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My insides twist and churn. I just watched a film I've wanted to see for months: KhadakA movie about Mongolia, shamanism and the modern world
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