I love reading long emails from people. The simple act of stringing words together and clicking on that send button, an almost ancient ritual that is rarely practised these days if not for the inevitable work emails we send out everyday. We live in an age where we’re spoilt by options like retweeting and forwarding. Originality becomes an idea that’s almost forgotten. But there it was, in my inbox, sat an email with words she didn’t borrow from books, from another blogger, or from another friend on twitter. I read her words and I imagined her sitting in her darkened room at 4.15am, with the light of her laptop iluminating her face and accompanying the quiet hum of the airconditioner, her chattering keys sing a song while she wrote to me. I like this stranger.
And that reccuring dream of sprouting pegasus-like wings came back to me. I would once again, like to fly away. Far, far away. ‘Cos for me, being on the ground pains me, keeping my feet still numbs and not moving traps. Claustrophobia gets increasingly suffocating by the minute, watching our walls fall around us. Bare and naked for the world to see, it seems, will not make us happy. If only the world could turn its judging eyes away, for just one minute.