Krista Hovsepian

i struggle with small talk. i’m good at it, but it bores me. i don’t want to talk about the weather or stop at how’s work and how’s your mother? i want to know what your soul craves. your wildest dreams and your biggest fears. what you think about when you’re tossing and turning at 3 am, unable to sleep. i want to hear about the times you felt the most loved, the most in love. what it feels like in your body, in your heartspace when you think about the impermanence of life, about your own death. i want to delve into your craziest thoughts, the ones that make you feel scared and alone (because i promise they’re not so scary and you’re not so alone) and i want to explore the things that make you laugh from the depths of your belly, that make you chortle and snort, and the things that make you cry so hard that your body contorts and convulses into primally primitive patterns of release. it’s okay. we’ve all been there. i want to free fall into your youness and to carve out a safe space to pour, drip, spill, funnel out my essence for us both to explore until everything and nothing makes sense anymore.