The music switches from Imagine Dragons to Jack Johnson.
I curl up and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to shove away the cold and the dark.
I realize that I desperately need a hug, but my hoodie and blanket will have to do.
I pay no attention to the dark, crystal-clear sky outside the window.
I think about what if,
And I write.
I write until my eyes can hardly stay open against the glare of the computer screen. I look at the clock and sigh as digits change by one minute.
Eleven twenty-four P.M. on a lamplit, chilly September evening.
I realize that it’s pretty late. I should definitely be going to bed…
But nothing seems to hinder the flow from my mind to my fingertips on the computer keys.
This space, the vast emptiness of cyberspace that stretches between you and I, how big is it really? If I stretched out my heart, could I touch yours?
This mix of thoughts and dreams and desires, afraid to hope, afraid to wish. These stories and battles and adventures that make me who I am, these memories that swirl in and through the hopes and the fears and the baggage I so tightly cling to. Is this what makes me who I am? Are your thoughts and dreams and fears and memories what make you who you are?
Is this how writing works? It seems to transcend time and space. I’m here, right now. And you, whoever and wherever and whenever you are, when you read this, are transported through time to be right here with me, too. You see my words as I type them. You read my thoughts as I think them.
Maybe these thoughts are strange, but they are mine.
And they make up who I am;
me, today, in this very moment.