I write because I have to keep talking to you.
Because I want to meet you again – out of time, out of memory.
I want to be surprised by you again, to be drawn into your story.
I want to be curious about you again.
I want to hear you, and feel heard.
I want to unravel you, revel in the strangeness and danger of the connection without fucking up my delicate quotidian bubble.
I want to watch how you explore a setting, a situation, another person, with absolute freedom.
It’s a love letter, a confession, a knife in your chest, bruised ribs, a sublimation, a conversation, a catharsis and a haunting.
I write to force myself to let you go, to take on a life that cannot exist in my memories – because memories don’t breathe.
I want to react to you again, to answer you,
I want to follow you home without you knowing it and listen to your prayers.
I want to be omnipotent to your mortal, the unlimited to your limits, to give you back your ability to move, to roam, to hunt.
I write because I can be your prey inside the words…or you can be mine.
Because it’s a vantage point, an access point, a way to possess without encroaching, a way to understand without intruding.
I don’t need you to be real. I just need to meet you again, in other people, in myself, but mostly on the page.
On the page, there can be magic.
On the page, you can be anything you want.