And I like my words to tumble and fall and after you’ve finished
reading them to not know immediately the why or how of where you’ve been, but
to know that it struck some place deep inside you. I want my words to carry barbs
deep into your flesh, so deep you get phrases stuck in your head on repeat like a song you
can’t be rid of. I want your fingers to smell of the places I’ve shown you and
I want your dreams to get them mixed up with reality. I want my words to creep
slowly into your bed at night like a lover come home late, leaving the scent of them in your hair,
reminding you of all the parts of yourself that haven’t yet been explored. I
want to make you an adventurer, charting the territory of you and me and every other person. I want to show
you a mirror and sit back and watch as you become entranced by your own
possibility. I want to be that mirror, reflecting back all the things you’ve
deep down known to be true but never found a way to articulate them. I want to teach you of the sort of travelling one does by standing still and letting each place- every city and town and ocean and mountain- move through you, stopping at all the beautiful points and taking photographs of them back to their loved ones. I want to show you what it's like to see the world for the first time, to find words for things you never knew existed- to open up a whole city of paths in articulating the city in your mind. And if I
fail, at least I will have left you in such a tizzy that you’ll put pen to
paper, or fingers to keys and start that process for yourself.
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