“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road
It takes the right words to keep me up at night. The feeling of a crisp page between my thumb and pointer finger, the squinty eyes I look from as I feign back yawning, the delicate interweaving of commas and questions, fragments and dialogue.
It becomes a part of me, I feel the characters and the stories as if they are my own. I carry them on my back, I fight and bleed my way through hours and years of adventures and heartbreaks. There’s no judgement between the lines of a paper, no ridiculing, no masquerading, no identities are being withheld or shunned. The author and I, we come as we are. We give and take, tears and joys, laughter and silence, triumph and trials.
There’s a bond I cannot put into words, a connection I can’t touch, a loyalty I cannot replicate. It’s pureness and honesty. In these early hours of the morning, in these silent moments to myself, there’s a refuge found within the pages.
Sometimes I think there’s no way I can feel any more for a particular character or a particular sentence or phrase or ending. But I do. I peer into the next page and I’m somewhere deeper, somewhere more captivating, somewhere I’ve never been before, somewhere familiar and foreign. Somewhere I enjoy being.
I go to sleep with dreams floating around in my head. Dreams of creating a refuge with my own weary hands. Dreams of cultivating a world that welcomes in the hearts of other wandering souls. Dreams of bringing light to my sanctuary of healing. Dreams of sending more depth into this world than I’ve taken away. Dreams of leaving here with exerting more than I’ve consumed. Dreams of documenting and recording and observing. Dreams of giving justice to the mess. And the beauty.
Fall asleep a dreamer.