i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.
i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.
i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.
i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.
i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.
i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.
mortal words seeking immortality.
so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.