The year is 2020. The year is also 1654. The year is also 2085. The air quivers, there is a rupture in reality. She is here once upon a time now, then and in the future. Every moment of her life is out there somewhere. She selects all squares with street signs.
Dear,
I am writing to you as I find myself in somewhat scattered conditions, restless and anxious. I get out, walk around and breathe the air but boundaries have become blurred and I can no longer be sure of anything. I stand in street corners piercing existence with my eyes practicing optical illusion. Time shifts. I sit under a tree and lean back into the nature of things. I can’t escape this overwhelming fear of becoming motionless; of being inert. I think of you at this very moment as you read these words. Your violent hunger for life and freedom and your extraordinary ambition and thirst for adventure. I think of you in perpetual motion, your sparkle ever changing. You are a fire bearer, an agent of transformation. I think of you as I lay awake at night listening to the wind rustling in the trees. You appear cloaked in thick, black velvet and guide me inside my heart to search for what it is I must do and be. A wise woman once said, there are two kinds of people; the ones who leave and the ones who stay. I never knew which one I was. Re:captcha, I’m not a robot.
