Join Date: Mar 2009
Location: California
Posts: 53
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I got no sleep before I wrote this...
Some part of me wishes I could have an out-of-body experience, but not the drug kind. The astral projection kind [provided, of course, that that is the proper term]. What would it be like to leave my body behind and go floating off somewhere , away from the harsh music and glaring lights; away from the sirens and fluorescent illumination. I think I'd like to revisit Tokyo, or go to Paris or Venice. Yeah, Venice might be okay. I've never been to Italy, but I've heard they've got skin the color of mocha ice cream and gold-green eyes like a cat's. And their voices, too, are something to be praised. Like honey and wine, sweet and warm and full of laughter. Except for the sad Italians. I imagine they're not very happy at all. But if I could force my spirit from my body and go places, maybe I'd write them letters or something. Try to help. But maybe not, maybe I'd just travel the world or go into the cold, dark emptiness that space is supposed to be. But probably not. I'd be frightened of getting burned on the stars, I think. I'd forget to keep my distance and get scorched along the way. Maybe I'd stay at home and float around the ceiling, watching moonlight's silver fingers creep over the windowsill and crawl across the floor to finally come to rest, silken and shining, on the covers of so many long-forgotten tomes. Or I'd go to libraries and read for hours on end in the dead of night. Maybe then I'd have the courage and presence of mind to read Bukowski, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Homer. But maybe not. Maybe I'd stick to Neil Gaiman and Charlaine Harris, and never have to learn a new word. If, however, I could astrally project, I see no reason why I could not also time-travel and expand my knowledge not only of space, culture, and location, but of different times as well. I could go just a little back and meet Picasso, who put cigarettes out on people's faces, or Harvey Milk, who fought for recognition and equality. I could go further back and meet all sorts of interesting people: Che Guavara, Frida Kahlo, Da Vinci, Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, Homer, Rasputin, Jesus. But I can't time-travel. I can't astrally project. The only thing I can hope to do is try to meet people here, now. I can do my best to meet them in a variety of places: online, in coffee-shops, in cafés, at school, at the mall, in libraries. Maybe then I'll meet all sorts of interesting people; short ones, tall ones, fat ones, skinny ones, dumb ones, smart ones, the ignorant and the educated, the rich and the poor. But I ought to write it all down, don't you suppose? Because otherwise, I might forget the things they say, the shoes they wore, or the colour of their eyes. And that'd be so very sad. I'd go out with the intent to learn and come away with nothing. So there's nothing to do but go to coffee shops and bookstores and cafés and libraries and internet forums to meet you. Only you, just you. I want to meet you, whether you shower me with panegyrics, or cow me with bitter vitriol, I want to meet you. I want to learn your likes, dislikes, speech patterns, and all the little things that make you who you are. I cannot and will never guarantee that we will be friends or get along, but I owe you the courtesy of trying.
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