Wouldn't it be lovely, I think, to be able to paint a
picture in someone’s mind using just your words? How amazing, to take someone’s
imagination like a blank canvas and paint it with brilliant hues, your brush
merely the formation of letters. To show them places they have never been, fill
their senses with unfamiliar scents and summon up a feeling they have never
felt before. That I should live on in the printed word long after everyone that
ever knew me is gone.
What I mean to say is, when I grow up, I want to be a
writer. I want to write words so heavily laden with meaning that thousands of
people comb through them with highlighters and markers and pencils, seeking
out my train of consciousness.
No one will know that I am hiding my insecurities behind intricately
worded metaphors and similes. I want to store my broken emotion behind each
full stop like the hidden shelves of a forgotten cupboard.
I want to make hearts race, tears fall and gasps be uttered,
just with force of my words. I want to pour myself into each sentence so that
you may find me concealed in every space. I want someone to finish reading my
work and pause, and think about who they are and what role they play in the
torrid lives of others. And maybe after they finish pondering that, perhaps
they will see my name and think: yes, she was a writer.
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