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Holli Holdsworth
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My cheek is smudged with red clay.
African soil keeps me grounded, dirty, alive. Gives me perspective and cause for alarm. Dusty, wet, preoccupied by irony and deceit, beauty and angst, the fragile and the strong.
Beads of sweat trickle down my spine over time and through the valleys of this continent
for over a decade.
I could escape it but only tangibly.
The unmistakable pattern of living this life in this place is a tattoo etched on my psyche, coarsing through my veins. Forever.
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