Is it too wrong of me to want? To simply want. Want: euphoria in technicolor, lavender fields at night, secret delights in hidden corners of Paris, a forest bathing in fog, reckless ballads in moonlit courtyards, an asizzle web of diamond skylines, parades in 500-year-old cities. Want: to feel every hue, every shade, every sound, every shape, every version of feeling in this universe – to swallow it all, to drink it up whole, to fill my eyes with the crackling unseen. Everything – possible and impossible – I want it, in all its ferocity and wildness, in all its vividness and vigor. Because something is horribly disappointing and limited about my world, and I feel as if this isn’t what I signed up for – I signed up for amber streetlights soaking dark highways, I signed up for muffled laughs in old record stores, I signed up for Luxembourgian hillsides and hazy Welsh forests. I signed up for life in all of its extremes, all of its uttermosts, all of its maxuimums, all of it – to the highest, highest degree.

Yet, I continue to find binds and empty glassiness. I continue to find ceilings and non-fulfillment. And I feel horribly hollow.


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