Mythology haunts me. It’s erasure. I’m convinced that none of us were ever meant to hear ourselves be described by someone else, and it’s not just because of vanity—there’s too much definition in it, too much fantasy, like being eulogised while living or pinned down like a butterfly in a display case.
These are photos of walkways in my suburb. When I don’t want to be anything for anybody I head to these paths, cherishing the freedom of passing unnoticed within arm’s reach of the surrounding homes. Here are lives that I will never know, people who are not watching me, and it is impossible to stop moving. The work in progress, my body in motion; as long as there is road ahead I’ve no need to think about what is left.