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Exhaustion will do crazy things to your mind. You can only imagine what I’ve dreamed, what I’ve seen in black and white, oh, the places I’ve been. And I’m nowhere close to going where I want. I want to see the end of the world and return home again to tell everyone about it. I want to live through others, feel the things they do. I want to look in the windows of the world, because if I don’t, where are my words going to come from? And where will they go if not to bleed from my fingers onto the pages?
I’m a writer. I have nothing to write. Whatever you read is a bunch of nothing in pretty words, in a mild hope that you will understand. I don’t know who you are. You have no idea who I am. I could be the wanderer in the cold city at night. I could be the lonely college girl in a coffee shop tapping away at her laptop, pretending to do her homework. I could be a teacher, a plumber, an exotic dancer, a high school student pretending she’s something she’s not. I could be a mother. A daughter. The thing that crawled from the sewer. Maybe I’m the messenger. And now I’m just free-streaming it, letting my conscience take over. I’m not crazy. I’m not curled in a corner somewhere. Maybe you’ll see something worth reading in here. Maybe you’ll understand. Can you see it? The clouds that form the silver palace beneath the moon? I’m a writer. I’m used to pretty words. I’m a poet, but you’ve never seen my poems. More pretty words.
I don’t blame you if you skimmed or completely skipped the above paragraph. Fortune cookies can’t give you a hint of what’s to come, nor can they tell you what you seek. They’re full of pretty words as well, giving you a chance to make what you will of them. Make yourself from your own superstition. I want to live like I’m dying, and I hope you can see the same. Is that superstition enough?