How do I explain what it is that is inside me? How can I convey to you the wonder I feel from days that have long since passed? How do I tell you about the scent of hot bread on the way to school? About how we used to stuff it in our pockets, about how warm it was against your leg? How do I make you feel the warmth of the summer of 2004, when I climbed on the roof for the first time and I flirted with the edges of danger and freedom, when I dreamed of sprouting wings? That summer when I knew little of sadness and too much of shared meals and laughter and beautiful sunsets? How do I show you all the experiences I carry with me, all these burrows of treasured memories? All this undeclared wealth that I have amassed with every wrinkle, every laugh line?
I wish I could touch you or just look into your eyes and show you the light that shines within. To let you know that though my smile is sad, my spirit is at ease. But my tongue slips, and I manage to turn even the magical into the ordinary. There is not a thing that leaves my mouth that is not underwhelming.
There is so much of me that I cannot explain, so much that is lost in gestures and sounds and made-up words.
I cannot invite you to my world. I am lost within it and cannot find the way that leads to it—I do not even know the way out. But I can only hope, from here on out, that you will keep searching for it with me.