I love writing on things that weren’t meant to be written on — napkins, bridges, decrepit buildings, library books, wet concrete, drunk people’s faces. Some might call it vandalism…and yeah… that’s about right. But it’s also my desire to communicate without actually talking to people, because people are terrifying. I’d much rather leave a frosting message on their birthday cake.
It’s why I love books and writing, time capsules, and tattoos. I pave these vague avenues between me and them, strangers and loved-ones alike. I don’t expect the whole world to understand the same hidden message, whether its in a book or inked on my body, but that makes the message more exciting, like I’m broadcasting hidden parts of myself and only those who relate can hear. I fully expect some channels will go unheard.
No one will ever truly know me — the worst and the best things I’ve done. I think that goes for most of us. But I left clues all around the world, and whether you find them or not doesn’t matter. It’s down in writing for futuristic paleontologists (who look like Robin William’s Bicentennial Man) to crowd ’round and mutter over.
They should already know to dig deeper.