If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. Words are infinite, aren't they? But they don't have reasons. Or really, they don't all need reasons. They need a chance and a pair of lungs to breathe them in. They don't need a plan or a reason and neither does love. Sometimes, they have reasons, sometimes they don't. I wish it wasn't all reason. I wish they words were free of reason.

I have always wanted to be a writer, really. I want to be an author; I want my words to live in ink. I want my words to build souls and piece them together. I want to make a difference through my lingering, caressing sounds, humming into existence in the mentality of others.

My words can create a place where being infinite is possible. I want to create that and save you deep inside the meaning.

I don't understand what I am doing with my life anymore. Saying: "I want to be an author" is all well, but it... It isn't... I don't want to write the words "it isn't going to happen" but it isn't going to happen. That damages me to write, an indignant child deep in my soul cries for me. It makes the thought official. It doesn't seem realistic. I am not good enough. I hate supposedly being the smart one. That's what it's like in my family. I am smart. But I'm really not. Maybe I've even tricked myself into believing I am smart. I'm not the prettiest. I'm not the smartest. I'm not the funniest. I'm not the most popular. I'm not the most exciting. I'm definitely not the most personable. I'm just average. And I'm sick of being average. It's not fair. I want to be an author, but wanting something and it being a reasonable want that will one day materialize or occur is not at all the same. My being an author is unlikely. I have always known this, and yet it never before had a hold over me. Now it feels as if maybe I should shelve my dream away, to keep it safe. I don't want to hurt my dream. I should put it in a box and simply wait. Every now and then I shall open the box, see the hope left behind, and reseal the box. I am saving myself from years of suffering.

But writing seems so delightful. Even if it gets me nowhere, even if at 44 years old, I am a lonely woman with not even a pet cat or a friend in the world, writing is still beautiful. My words can still create the world's I hope for even if no minds but my own indulge in my lies.

I can make you fall for my lies. That's what writers do. We share beautiful lies. If I fall for them, what will save you?

I know syntax that will set your skin on edge. I can make you see glitter and taste sparkles with my fluency, oh dear, do you believe me? What if I can control you with the words I speak because they nourish your hungry, hungry soul? They are drops of water on a parched tongue, the touch of a cool breeze on a sulphurous, violet-hot day. They pierce through the stratosphere to reach you, scintillating with their sharp edges and unexplored crevices. They scrape along your skin and ask questions of your mind, allow you to look inward as you look outward. Above all they make you feel, because that is what you want most of all—to feel, to feel, to feel, and this is the only way you know how.

Let me show you how to feel.

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. Your memory cannot die; you are trapped in the pages. And you, oh, I could never let you die, my dear. Since years ago, we're fallen out, since years ago, since years to come; I will always love you, in my heart and soul and in words cast in this simple font. You can see it in their eyes as they scan the pages and share intakes of breath. My love for you will live on and you will never die alone. Just like the words—your memory is infinite.