Messiah

I want to be poetic. I want to swing my window wide open and sit halfway out, bare feet dangling down, on too-hot summer nights. I want to count the stars and the distant city lights and write acoustic lullabies and letter to the world to send off in corked up bottles floating in the ocean or to tape to high school doorways so the hopeless can read them and have an epiphany. I want to stand on my roof and tip my head back into the overwhelming 2 am sky and scream that I exist. I want to say something that no one has ever dreamed, or dream something that no one has ever said and then say it in a way that no one would have ever thought possible. I want to draw a new constellation. I want to invent a new cliché. I want to write out each letter of a new word not derived from Latin or Greek or German, but rather from me. I want to subtly pour myself into a part of this world. I want to create onomatopoeia for the sounds of the night that no one ever really hears because they never take the time to listen. I want to write a work of art for one little girl to read so it will open her soul. I want to dance with the cool breeze or the salty Pacific and not care if someone sees me and thinks I’m ridiculous. I want to mix a color that no one has ever seen before and paint a stripe of it from Seattle to Providence. I want to take a running leap and not fall but soar because I believe that to fly would be the ultimate sensation.

But until the day when I discover true wisdom, until the day when I grow into my wings, I would be happy with someone to hold me through just a few hours of unbreakable sleep.