This is a reaction paper.
I would like to live in a crack in your skull, so I could pick your brain whenever I wanted. I would sit there, wedged between two plates of bone, breathing your air and stealing your blood and reveling in the wonder of your thoughts, in the dimensions you create for yourself and for everyone else and the greatness you are.
I would like to live in your gray matter, and matter there. If I could bathe in the battles fought in your brain, to witness your creation, verb, and all your hopes for better things. If I could stay and and ask and pry and mind your business, I would place myself under the cerebral cortex. I want to hear the gears clunking and twisting and thinking; I want to wake to the sound of brilliance and beauty and things that would normally be beyond me.
The only way, I suppose now, to be what I want to be, is to be within what I wonder about so often. Enough of alliteration, I want to learn about you. And the things you love and the things you don't and the things you like to eat in the morning. What's made you into something I would steal in a second; mine, please.
I want to live in the pulse in your neck, in your wrists, in your legs when you run for too long and your entire body feels like it's beating. I want to be in your fingers when you write and under your eyelids when you sleep. I want to dream your dreams, like a drive-in movie, but better.
But I have to wait for you to invite me in. I'm kind of like a vampire in that way, I guess. Ladies aren't supposed to barge in unannounced and make themselves comfortable and be cozy in someone else's mind. I would love, though, to sneak in through the second floor window (would you leave one open for me?) and snuggle up under the covers with your subconscious -- soak up all your insight and ideas and infinite imagination.
Please, let's skip the cordial invitations, forget the chocolate pie I'm supposed to offer and the acquaintance we're supposed to make. A little space inside your brain is all I'm hoping for. It's not so much to ask of a stranger, is it.
day 7: formal
