I met him once as I slipped into reverie. The sky was lucid but my mind hazy. I can recall the sense of freedom I had running through the opalescent reflective sea with no particular plan intended as to where I was headed or what I was doing. I didn’t mind that my diaphanous attire, senselessly moving about my frail frame, gave away my contusions and faults. The bottoms of my feet felt the scraping of the rocks as they hit the ground sharply. Wincing at the pain I kept running all the while having the brine push me back to where I had started. I ran until the cool water became heat, until the air became my freely falling emotions, and until my feet no longer touched the earth but kicked rapidly against currents. It seemed as though everything was against me, but a certain impetus kept me afloat. In seconds I was being tossed and turned in a whirlwind of memories. I watched as my retentions, torn by lightening, became soft melting substances in finely cut grass. I observed as they morphed into rain droplets, though looking up the sky was radiant once more. And that is when I saw him. He was surreal. His face wore the combination of both perfection and grace. His manner was benignant. With all odds earlier against me, I felt rather seditious. He stretched his robust arm out extending his hand and I forwardly held on to it as we leaped from landscape to landscape. We visited the quiet environments of developing countrysides as well as the clamorous cities and islands along the circular Terra. The world was a 3-d chromatic blue print, but like in the theaters, unable to be touched and experienced by any sense other than the eyes. To me this dream was a rude awakening to my lifeless self which, before it, moved like a walking automaton. Discontented when I aroused because reality hit, I began to live.

I suck with words. That very sentence acts as evidence for its own claim. I do not doubt for a second some of you may feel the same way. Some of you, like me, may be sitting at your computer or desk trying to articulate in words the exact feelings you have endured over the years. It is anything but easy to generate a feeling or have the reader imagine what had happened in simply put words, and it is only amazing for those who can. How prodigious that some can effortlessly exploit rhythms in their sentences with the aid of grammar and other diacritical marks and make the unnecessary necessary; meaningful. I envy the ones who can paint a clear picture where the reader truly visualizes the exact angle the sun shines upon an old house, releasing hope, curdling in through bricks and walls, and finally resting eternally in the heart of a young girl. I envy the ones who can make the words “I know exactly what they meant by this” or “I feel the same way” come from the mouths and hearts of many. As for myself, what can honestly be said that can reassure someone in need of reassuring? That can bring love in a loveless life? I praise writers. They bring me hope in a hopeless world. Something I can’t do, something many of you can’t do. I will forever suck at words, though I will forever feel indebted to them for they are the only way one can truly define their feelings. Without words, no one lives. No accounts are made of what had happened. Without them, everyone is alone.