I always feel like writing a story.
I always want to write words and see beautiful characters living beautiful lives.
I want them to have things I can only grasp at: not (only) love, not (only) safety, but a feeling equivalent to the act of writing on hard-covered books, and collecting letters, and having lots of pens and paper. But I don’t want them to have pens and paper; I want them to have the feeling that comes with it. I do not know how to explain that feeling, or to separate it from other things in life. I wonder if it can even exist by itself.
So I draw them living in little cottages by the meadow, watching the stars in the clear blue sky with their loved ones. I imagine them writing letters ten pages long to their fair away friends, and drawing with crayons and coal. I listen to the sound of dry, old paper rustling with the gentlest touch.
When I feel even more emotional than usual, I raise children. From the dead, from my imagination, from dreams — it does not matter where they come from. I set these children free in a world where they can grow and thrive by themselves. I give them what I wanted to be given. And so the cottages are more than houses, and the meadows are more than simple fields. They turn into home. Paradise.
There is something about meadows, letters and stars that makes me want to call them home.
