I do not want my legacy to be of the sea, to be another grain of sand in the beach of souls. When I was young, I stopped making wishes on stars for they were too distant, too far, to hear my dreams. I began to believe trees would become scarce one day, and they make a better place to latch one’s dreams upon. I do not want my legacy to be of the sea. I dream of my legacy being an orchard of trees bearing my words. Their paper trunks scribbled with my flowing script. Their branches waving in the air—my words singing in the breeze. An orchard of words, not just a grain of sand in the beach of souls. I do not want my legacy to be of the sea.
I met a blind man who described his dreams as shadows and voices, shadows reflecting on a white wall and voices in the distance. No matter how close those damn voices were, they were always in the distance. I felt something close to empathy because I am the girl who is lonely in the crowded rooms. I am the girl who gets lost inside her head, and the rest is just shadow play.