I live those words.
I breathe those words.
Those words, your words, made me feel I was never alone.
They made me feel that there’s someone out there for me.
Your words were honest with me
and I was honest with your words.
Reading them, knowing how you felt, how you were lonely sometimes, and afraid too, but always standing up, the way you looked at the world, felt its color, smelled its textures, and sounds, I felt your thoughts, hopes, desires and dreams.
I felt I was thinking and feeling and dreaming with you.
I dreamed of what you dreamed of, and wanted what you wanted.
And then I realized,
I just wanted
I want to be talked about. I want people to know my name. I want people I don’t know to Google me. I want my phone to vibrate every single minute with Twitter and Instagram notifications. I want to be listed in a list of people who matter. In a publication like Times. I want people to dream of becoming me. I want to make people laugh. And I want to inspire them too. I want to be rich, but not too rich. Just enough to know the first name of the person who handles my account. I want to be able to make it to trending topics every time I have lunch at a normal restaurant. I want to be invited to write for famous magazines and give commencement addresses. I want to be sent free shit in the mail. I want the funny and the creatives with blue ticks next to their names to invite me to their private parties. We’ll sing and dance together. I want Manchester United to be my family business. I want to dab and celebrate with my players when we score. I want a balcony. I want a court-side seat to a sport I’m not interested in. But, most of all, I want you.
and it caught