Dear May.

Dear May, 

[I'm writing this letter to you but it's really a letter to myself, to the person I know is inside of me, somewhere.]

Step outside as often as possible. 

Feel the sun on your face, raindrops trickling down your cheeks, the wind dancing on your eyelashes. 

It's okay to feel afraid. It's how you know you care, deeply. It's how you know you're alive. You do. And you are. 

Dig those cameras out of that box in the cupboard immediately and put them on those shelves you bought and put up on the wall especially. Sure one shelf is a little wonky, but I suppose it's quite a fitting visual representation of what's going on inside your head. I think you'll always be a little wonky. 

I know you've lost all belief in your work and yourself, but nothing will change if you don't try. 

Make that website. 

I don't know that you believe in destiny, but you do believe in making your own luck. 

And I know you don't know quite how. And you don't have to believe in yourself right now, but you do need to participate. 

Write + photograph.  

Look, objectively. 

Listen, attentively. 

Laugh, honestly.

Cry, unapologetically.  

It starts today. This minute. This second. 

And I don't know you don't know what it is, but this is the beginning. 

So. 

What are you going to make today?