It’s been a while since I last wrote here. I gave myself a break over Christmas with the idea of returning in the new year refreshed and replenished but for some reason I’m feeling a little lost, directionless, a little… depleted. My head is crowded but when I sit down at my kitchen table to write I feel stuck; as though I’m trying to stick my pen in my body and write what doesn’t want to be written – religion, existence and the enigma of the mind. And love too, the tsunami of pleasure that comes from the simple motions of connected lives, things like making dinner, building our imaginations in Lego, the warm pressure of bodies that begat one another, if not in flesh then in feeling. How to explain the richness of a life many would regard as unstable, diminished, different. Why try?