Looking at old photo albums with
you, and all the pictures of me
make me smile. Two years old,
all blonde curls and dresses in
acid-bright Technicolour,
tasting first ice-creams
and wearing my
mother's Raybans.
I look at them and I just
love myself.
A strange feeling.
I don't think I've ever
loved myself as fully,
or if I ever will again.
Not as much as I
love analogue-photograph
two-year-old-me,
slotted into plastic
sleeves, smiling
back at me.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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