Azumah Nelson Quotes

You have always thought if you opened your mouth in open water you would drown, but if you didn't open your mouth you would suffocate. So here you are, drowning.

What you're trying to say is that it's easier for you to hide in your own darkness, than emerge cloaked in your own vulnerability. Not better, but easier. However the longer you hold it in, the more likely you are to suffocate. At some point, you must breathe.

What is better than believing you are heading towards love?

It’s one thing to be looked at, and another to be seen.

Every time you remember something, the memory weakens, as you’re remembering the last recollection, rather than the memory itself. Nothing can remain in tact. Still, it does not stop you wanting, does not stop you longing.

You ache. You ache all over. You are aching to be you, but you're scared of what it means to do so.

Perhaps that is how we should frame this question forever; rather than asking what is your favourite work, let’s ask, what continues to pull you back?

It's easier to hide in your own darkness, than to emerge, naked and vulnerable, blinking in your own light.

Ask: if flexing is being able to say the most in the fewest number of words, is there a greater flex than love?

There’s so much more you wish to say but there aren’t the words.

Besides, sometimes, to resolve desire, it's better to let the thing bloom. To feel this thing, to let it catch you unaware, to hold onto the ache. What is better than believing you are heading towards love?

I know I'm a photographer, but if someone else says I'm that, it changes things because what they think about me isn't what I think about me.

You have always wondered under what conditions unconditional love breaks, and you believe that betrayal might be one of them.

Language fails us, and sometimes our parents do too. We all fail each other, sometimes small, sometimes big, but look, when we love we trust, and when we fail, we fracture that joint.

You wish you had the words, no, you wish you had the courage to climb up from whatever pit you have fallen into, but right now, you do not.

To give desire a voice is to give it a body through which to breathe and live. It is to admit and submit something which is on the outer limits of your understanding.

You know that to love is both to swim and to drown. You know to love is to be a whole, partial, a joint, a fracture, a heart, a bone. It is to bleed and heal. It is to be in the world, honest. It is to place someone next to your beating heart, in the absolute darkness of your inner, and trust they will hold you close. To love is to trust, to trust is to have faith. How else are you meant to love? You knew what you were getting into, but taking the Underground, returning home with no certainty of when you will see her next, it is terrifying.

She tells you she loves you and now you know that you don't have to be the sum of your traumas, that multiple truths exist, that you love her too.

Your few days together have been spent doing nothing really, which is something, is an intimacy in itself.

Meeting someone on a summer's evening is like giving a dead flame new life.

To love someone like that, to know how beautiful and wholesome and healing such a love is, and to turn your back on it required no strength at all.

You dance through topics like two old friends, finding comfort in a language which is instantly familiar. You create a small world for yourselves, and for you both only, sitting on this sofa, looking out at the world which has a tendency to engulf even the most alive.

You flash the smile of a king but you both know regicide is rife.

She still thinks about you a lot. Your lives unstitched themselves, but the loose threads remain where the garment was torn.

It's -' You pause, frowning to yourself as you reach for the right expression. 'You can't live in a vacuum. And when you let people in and you make yourself vulnerable, they're able to have an effect on you. If that makes sense.

It is a strange thing, to desire your best friend; two pairs of hands wandering past boundaries, asking forgiveness rather than permission; "Is this OK?" coming a fraction after the motion.

But even if this seed grows, even if the body lives, breathes, flourishes, there is no guarantee of reciprocation. Or that you’ll ever see them again.

You've been wondering about your own relationship to open water. You've been wondering about the trauma and how it always finds its way to the surface, floating in the ocean. You've been wondering about how to protect that trauma from consumption. You've been wondering about departing, about being elsewhere. You have always thought if you opened your mouth in open water you would drown, but if you didn't open your mouth you would suffocate. So here you are, drowning.

You don't talk here, but even if you did, the words would fail you, language insufficient to reflect the intense mess of being this intimate with another.

What you’re trying to say is that it’s easier for you to hide in your own darkness, than emerge cloaked in your own vulnerability. No better, but easier. However, the longer you hold it in, the more likely you are to suffocate. At some point, you must breathe.

You are more than the sum of your traumas

To my queen, forever is a mighty long time, but I knew you before I met you, so now we're free. You didn't have a home coming into this world, but you're home now. You're home now.

I’ve only ever known myself in song, between notes, in that place where language won’t suffice but the drums might, might speak for us, might speak for what is on our hearts.

of unresolved grief, large and small, of others assuming that he, beautiful Black person in gorgeous Black body, was born violent and dangerous; this assumption, impossible to hide, manifesting in every word and glance and action, and every word and glance and action ingested and internalized, and it’s unfair and unjust, this sort of death

You’ll sigh and gaze towards a sky which shows no signs of darkening, and say, I guess where was something in the room that night, which I didn’t feel until I met her. Something which, looking back, I couldn’t ignore

You fit, as if this has been your everyday.

You’re drawing a line towards her. No, the line was there, is always there, will always be there, but you’re trying to reinforce, to strengthen.

There is a difference between being looked at and being seen.

You catch a glimpse of someone else’s rhythm, and think, I know that song.

Grief never ends, but we find a way to walk in the light someone has left behind, rather than living in pain's shadow.

...What time are you seeing her?' 'How do you know it's a woman?' 'This isn't my first rodeo 'What do you mean?' 'You look like you got hit by a bus, and you dusted yourself off, and did it again for the hell of it. You look like you're wondering when the next time you can get hit by that bus is.

You don’t talk here, but even if you did, the words would fail you, language insufficient to reflect the intense mess of being this intimate with another.

There should be no shame in openly saying, I want this. There should be no shame in not knowing what one wants.

Love as a form of meditation; reaching toward a more honest expression of self

You came here to speak of what is means to love your best friend. Ask: if flexing is being able to say the most in the fewest number of words, is there a greater flex than love? Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, a direct gaze.

You love yourself enough to take care.

The trouble is, you are not only sharing dinner tables with her, you are in the process of beginning to share your life in a way you have not before. You’re

Grief never ends, but we find a way to walk in the light someone has left behind

Lovea as a form of meditation; reaching towards a more honest expression of self

You tell her she deserves to be loved in the way you love her, and she starts to cry, quiet as rain.

...What time are you seeing her?' 'How do you know it's a woman?' 'This isn't my first rodeo' 'What do you mean?' 'You look like you got hit by a bus, and you dusted yourself off, and did it again for the hell of it. You look like you're wondering when the next time you can get hit by that bus is.

In the wake of violence, acute or prolonged, we ask what we might need, how we might weather this time, how we might care for each other, how we might cultivate the space which encourages honesty, which encourages surrender. How we might build a small world, where we might feel beautiful, might feel free.

You know that to love is both to swim and to drown. You know to love is to be a whole, partial, a joint, a fracture, a heart, a bone. It is to bleed and heal. It is to be in the world, honest. It is to place someone next to your beating heart, in the absolute darkness of your inner, and trust they hold you close

You don’t always like those you love unconditionally. Language fails us, always. Flimsy things, these words. And everything flounders in the face of real gratitude, which even a thank you cannot surmise, but a thank you to her also.

The train pulls in and she taps her Oyster card on the reader, stepping on board. You both wave as the doors close. She smiles at you as she settles into her seat, waving again. You begin to do the same, chasing after the train in pantomime fashion, spurred on by her laughter. You run and wave and laugh until the train gathers speed and the platform runs out. She escapes the frame, until it is just you on the platform, a little breathless, a little ecstatic, a little sad.

Faith is turning off the light and trusting the other person will not murder you in your sleep... How beautiful is beauty? You can find her lips with your eyes closed.

Above ground, you are comfortable with the theatrics of playing yourselves

Donatien Grau’s words: When the mind is lost in ecstasy, there is no condition for self-reflection, self-questioning. You’re

If you look closely, you'll see what she has always seen, what she always will: you

When you sow a seed it will grow. Somehow, someway, it will grow.

...love was not always synonymous with care.

It's one thing to be looked at, and another to be seen.

Faith is turning off the lights ad trusting the other person will not murder you in your sleep

You do not want to die before you can live

Grief never ends, but we find a way to walk in the light someone has left behind, rather than living in pain’s shadow.

You don’t always like those you love unconditionally. Language fails us, always. Flimsy things, these words.

You realize there is a reason cliches exist, and you would happily have your breath taken away, three seconds at a time, maybe more, by this woman.

To know someone before you knew them introduces a freedom previously unknown, when in their presence. Perhaps this is what home is: freedom.

To not fill your time with someone is to trust, and to trust is to love.

It's easier to hide in your own darkness, than to emerge, naked and vulnerable, blinking in your own light. Even here, in plain sight you're hiding.

The grief makes them tired. The effort makes them tired.

You know to love is to both swim and to drown. You know to love is to be a whole, partial, a joint, a fracture, a heart, a bone. It is to bleed and heal. It is to be in the world, honest. It is to place someone next to your beating heart, in the absolute darkness of your inner, and trust they will hold you close. To love is to trust, to trust is to have faith.

When the photo is developed, she's sure, if you look closely, you'll see the shadow cast across your skin , the eyes both seeing her and seeing the world, the honesty resting calmly on your features. If you look closely, you might see a tear making a journey from eye to cheek, as you cry for her. If you look closely, you'll see what has always seen, what she always will: you

In the times we didn’t know ourselves, we always had each other; when faced with the unknown, we could lean back into the familiar, knowing each other’s hearts, knowing each other’s intimacies.

The trouble is, this is trouble that you welcome. You realize there is a reason clichés exist, and you would happily have your breath taken away, three seconds at a time, maybe more, by this woman.

You feel you have never been strangers. You do not want to leave each other, because to leave is to have the thing die in its current form and there is something, something in this that neither is willing to relinquish.

The songs are full of nostalgia, which is to say they are full of mourning; one remembers that which came before, often with a fond sadness, a want to return, despite knowing to return to a memory is to morph it, to warp it. Every time you remember something, the memory weakens, as you’re remembering the last recollection, rather than the memory itself. Nothing can remain intact. Still, it does not stop you wanting, does not stop you longing.

We won't smooth over our closures and ruptures, but we ask each other to be open, to lean towards each other, to be close. Ask that love might grow in the space between us, where we might feel beautiful, we we might feel free.

I dance to breathe but often I dance until I’m breathless and sweaty and I can feel all of me, all those parts of me I can’t always feel, I don’t feel like I’m allowed to. It’s my space. I make a little world for myself, and I live.

How does one articulate a feeling? There was a sensuality to the sharp movements you took towards the basket. Feeling rather than knowing; not knowing and feeling it was right. The moment slipped and shed. You had new skin. Bypassed something, the trauma, the shadow of yourself. This was pure expression. The steps were quick and sure like the intention of brush on canvas. No, you didn’t just put a ball through a hoop. You received a new way of seeing, a new way of being.

To know someone before you knew them introduces a freedom previously unknown, when in their presence. Perhaps this is what home is: freedom. It’s easy to stay furled up where you can’t live, like folding a book in half on its spine to fit into pockets.

I want to build a place where there’s a sense of freedom which isn’t attached to anything else, that doesn’t come as part of a transaction. There would be no catch. Just a place for people to eat and drink, to plot and breathe. To be. A place we could call home.

We are all hurting, you said. We are all trying to live, to breath, and find ourselves stopped by that which is out of our control. We find ourselves unseen. We find ourselves unheard. We find ourselves mislabelled. We who are loud and angry, we who are bold and brash. We who are Black. We find ourselves not saying it how it is. We find ourselves scared. We find ourselves suppressed, you said. But do not worry about has come before, or what will come; move. Do not resist the call of a drum. Do not resist the thud of a kick, the tap of a snare, the rattle of a hi-hat. Do not hold your body stiff but flow like easy water. Be here, please, you said, as the young man took a cowbell, moving it in a way which makes you ask, which came first, he or the music? The ratata is perfect, offbeat, sneaking through brass and percussion. Can you hear the horns? Your time has come. Revel in glory for it is yours to do so. You worked twice as hard today, but that isn’t important, not here, not now. All that matters is that you are here, that you are present, can’t you hear? What does it sound like? Freedom?

You’re like a pair of jazz musicians, forever improvising. Or perhaps you are not musicians, but your love manifests in the music. Sometimes, your head tucked into her neck, you can feel her heartbeat thudding like a kick drum. Your smile a grand piano, the glint in her eye like the twinkle of hands caressing ivory keys. The rhythmic strum of a double bass the inert grace she has been blessed with, moving her body in ways which astound. A pair of soloists in conversations so harmonious, one struggles to separate. You are not the musicians but the music.

Language fails us, and sometimes our parents do too. We all fail each other, sometimes small, sometimes big, but look, when we love we trust, and when we fail, we fracture that joint. She doesn’t want it to break and maybe that’s not possible, but she doesn’t want to find out. She’s

You're scared. But when you hear music, and something, something takes you, closes your eyes, moves your feet, hips, shoulders, bobs your head, reaches inwards, invites you to do the same, leads you, if only for a moment, towards something else which has no name, needs no name, do you question it? Or do you dance, even when you don't know the song?

To be you is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppresion. That suppression is indiscriminate. That suppression knows not when it will spill. What you're trying to say is that it's easier for you to hide in your own darkness, than emerge cloaked in your own vulnerability. Not better, but easier. However, the longer you hold it in, the more likely you are to suffocate. At some point, you must breathe.

You're like a pair of jazz musicians, forever improvising. Or perhaps you are not musicians, but your love manifests in the music. Sometimes, your head tucked into her neck, you can feel her heartbeat thudding like a kick drum. Your smile a grand piano, the glint in her eye like the twinkle of hands caressing ivory keys. The rhythmic strum of a double bass the inert grace she has been blessed with, moving her body in ways which astound. A pair of soloists in conversations so harmonious, one struggles to separate. You are not the musicians but the music.

You prod the pain in your left side and want to be made light. You pray with every action this will not be the day. Every day is the day, but you pray this day is not the day. Your mother prays every day that this will not be the day. You hear her through the bathroom door, praying for her sons, even as you play rapper while you swim in shallow water. N one has bars harder than your mum as she prays for you every day that this will not be the day. You know that this day could be the day but still you laugh it off when your partner says she's concerned for you to travel at night. You flash the smile of a king but you both know regicide is rife. You wash off dark soapsuds in the shower and pray that today is not the day. If you give a name to this day does that mean this life is yours? To name: basic, audacious. Lay claim, take power, take aim, this is yours. This act is like bringing a butter knife to a gunfight. You want to play rapper so you can say, I know that line went over your heads. You want to lie in darkness beside your partner and talk death like you have nothing to fear. You do not want to die before you can live. This is basic and audacious, but you want to lay claim to it while you still can.

You would soon learn that love made you worry, but it also made you beautiful. Love made you Black, as in, you were most coloured when in her presence. It was not a cause for concern; one must rejoice! You could be yourselves.

When she asks, are you OK, do not fear the truth. Besides, she knows before you speak.

I love her writing,' her mother says. 'She's my favourite writer. NW is the book I return to most.' Perhaps that is how we should frame this question forever; rather than asking what is your favourite work, let's ask, what continues to pull you back?

Under what condition does unconditional love break? She cried for you yesterday. She has decided to submit to her tears rather than understand them.

As you run off the platform and into the street, weaving towards your taxi, you experience a strange moment in which you are flung into the future, wondering how you will remember this. You would like a witness. You would like someone to stop you and ask, "what are you doing?", to which you would reply, "I’m doing what I feel.

Still, as you parted ways, you wondered if you're wrong, if freedom isn't as full as you imagine--no, if freedom is not as absolute--no, try again, if freedom is something one could always feel. Or if you are destined to feel it in small moments here and there.

...being seen is no small joy.

You while away the evening together, doing nothing really, which is something, is an intimacy in itself. To not fill your time with someone is to trust, and to trust is to love.

Sitting across from each other on the train home, you were holding a gaze you could be forgiven for suggesting will never break.

A song's worth. You make it worth it, swaying with the twists and turns of the carriage, catching the swing of the rhythm, sitting in the pocket of the beat. A small joy, but a joy nonetheless.

Trauma makes you considerate.