every once in a while i encounter prose or photos that "speak to me." perhaps i relate to them because they refer to situations that i have found myself in at one time or another, and they trigger memories, both good and bad. for one reason or another these works touch that soft spot in me and i go back to them again, and again, and again to feel that feeling again, and again, and again.
but none of these have been written for me. till now.
i wrote this for you, he says, and everyone else who reads it doesn't get it. and i say, yes.
i look at the photos and read all the words, and my heart smiles one minute and heaves a heavy heavy sigh the next, transported into another world where everything, even pain, is beautiful.
i take turns loving the book for saying all i feel, and hating it for saying all i feel. how could this book take my own emotions and express them more perfectly than i ever could? all those works that spoke to me pale in comparison.
the pictures that mean little to me at first glance make perfect sense when i read the words and each time it happens i cannot help feeling that somewhere in the universe something is clicking into place, its rightful place.
i wrote it for you inspires whimsy and brings wonder to ordinary places and things, and i find myself reaching out to touch the subject of a photo, forgetting that i am somewhere else entirely. i laugh a little at myself each time it happens, and that's always good.
it may do different things to you, inspire different emotions. i don't know, really. but i know one thing.
it was written for me, and only me. i get it.