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  • I want to touch the galaxies that explode into parrot-greens at the mere feathery ends of fingertips, being baffled at how there is a tinier world within a tinier world. They fold into themselves like pocketed secrets that you picked up on a summer’s day. I want to feel much more than the invisible winds, from sky to sky, from ochre to grey, feeding on all the colors that frame but not one horizon. I want to love. Not just the now, but the softer nights where I sit and come to like the sweet breaths of a few thoughts taking a stroll beneath the clouds so bloated, you would have to imagine their other side. I want to utter to you the lovely words that frame my life, before they speed away into another wasted daydream someplace else. What a joy it is to be young! Passion sits quietly on brooding eyes.

    How will I tell you, someday, when I am old enough, that I have discerned all the meshes that hold captive thought? Because when I am old, they would expect, but I would laugh and tell them I am younger still, more prone to being taken care of, and more imaginative on my wicker chair. The soul needs only time, you see. Contemplation is not the wildest wastes of the gift of time. Leisure is a precious thing of mellow beauty, and I intend to paint all that with the tall tales that I have unearthed within me—maybe buried at the end of that notebook paper in an attic of forgetfulness. I will have to spring-clean the corridors of my heart. That will be liberation, don’t you think? I don’t know how many more worlds will find me, and how many more I will adore. Who am I?

    When I cannot think curved, I grow scared. Thinking straight means I am doing something terribly wrong. Explaining lucidly means I am making it far too easy a chore for you, because waddling in words is fun. Dip your fingers in the icy coldness of the sentences that shock you, and eventually you are acclimatized to the endless realm of anything and everything. Possibility tastes something like honey dipped in cinnamon, something like a naïve meeting of separated affections. Never pace your thought accordingly.

    Because when I do reach the age where bored granddaughters gather by a chair and ask a story of grandmother, I wouldn’t like to delve into importance of education or the culture that was survival to me so they may produce yawns of various levels of interest before a sultry doze and never endure an enquiry again. So, I shall not speak of what others speak. I will tell them of fourteen and burning moon through the evening train, to whom I talked and who smiled back, of seventeen and watching the rocky mountains somewhere beneath me, cracking it’s extravagant spine, of being twenty four and eventually finding him in the tides of surging faces, falling deeply to the kindness in his eyes and the aliveness to that smile. I want to tell them of lifting my head and roaring. Cougar-like someday and not shriveled on a couch. You will see.

    And in order to tell them of the rivers of thought, I shall travel to the world within the world, every single time opportunity ominously sneaks to me. Such purity to this love for life, such a fair-minded curiosity….you know, maybe I don’t yet know who I am, but I do know…I do know this. There is no lack of worlds within worlds, and in this greening place where the gardens spill to every corner, in the yellow flowers rising beneath me, in the western scrub-jays conversing a forgotten memory, I share something of substance.

    I will touch them, and they will explode into galaxies. They chime a song, unhampered and quite in the likeliness of me. Assure me a Sylvan Sleeve.
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