I want to do absolutely everything in the world.
I want to touch *everything*. I want to know what it’s like have the stinging strings of a jellyfish twined around my fingers. I want to know what the wallpaper feels like in every National Portrait Gallery in the world. I want to end days with my knees aching because I’ve spent my days crawling up the rivers of stone that people have created all over the world. I want to know what it feels like to close my fist in a cloud, grasping the impossible, like catching starlight. I want have stains on my jeans from twelve hundred kinds of grass. I want to burn my fingers on food pulled from a bonfire. I want to know the feel of bark beneath my palms as I climb the tallest tree on the hill. I want to know the dark grains of the earth, as I scrape dirt out from beneath my fingernails.
I want to have scars from every country I’ve been to.
I want to know the all-encompassing warmth of hot springs, even as my ears freeze in the frigid breeze. I want the warmth of another heartbeat held against my chest. I want to sink my fingers into the unknown and never, ever let go. I want to know the rough-cast metal and chipped paint of fire escapes and cat-walks, creaking as I go higher; always higher. I want heat beneath my fingertips as I set electricity to work on creation – light, heat, sound.
I want to be able to hold my life in my hands and feel it’s weight. I want it burned into me, so wherever I go, I feel it; so no matter what happens, I can never forget that I have been somewhere.
It’s a good weight, it’s the weight of companionship, the weight of knowledge, the weight of mistakes and opportunities. I want to never be free of it.