If i could bottle up that feeling in my chest when you tell me stories, I could probably market it as the fountain of youth, elixir of life, liquid laughter with a hint of honey and expression.
I want to be the story teller of my time, I want to decode the mumbles and stutters and stitch together our defragmentation as an era, a generation of speakers wanting lips, I want to hold the mouthpiece of history to my lungs and shout out the story of man, woman, and the galaxies in between. Let this be the time that we say what we mean and mean what we say, let us fortify the webs of wanting from here to there, let us know where we stand.
Clear your throat and prepare yourself, this is the story that tells all stories. Be brave in your intentions, hold your head up high when you speak, girl, know that you will one day carry on the lives of your time with your voice. Remember clearly and pay attention, get this down just right, because one day all your notes on strangers will tell the world all its own secrets
(if you won’t ask i won’t tell)