To all those who are worth so much more than people see...
I seem to have spent the best moments of my life writing you.
I am an archive now, a wandering notebook of little smiles and insights, handwritten across the tiniest fingers.
I am the world's longest, bravest sentence, the world's loneliest, silliest lover and the world's most beautifully meaningless painting, and I wear all these faces between heartbeats so that nobody but you can see how precious the stories really are.
I am a word just starting to learn its meaning, looking to you for definition when the world starts to scramble my letters.
Every now and then, I still find myself quietly astonished at the things some people see behind my eyes, like an elven firework display hiding in a camera lens. The heartbeats still nag at me, daring me to make the secret movie I never truly believed I had the budget for, and I despair sometimes when yet another draft of the script flutters unceremoniously out through the nearest window.
But I have always known where to turn when the spells ran dry. I've always known which fingers to hold when my hand felt cold.
If I feel frayed and worn, I look to you, the champion of paper aeroplanes, to give me wings again.
Why then, when people look at you, do they insist on seeing only the frayed edges?
I watched your soul get scribbled on by people who couldn't be bothered to learn the language. I watched all your best notes become tangled in the margins like angry weeds. I watched all these atrocities and more - yet still your eyes shone.
How then did our magic words get so lost?
I've hardly started yet, and already I know the terrors of worn, faded paper, eaten away by the scars of old folds.
So when I shine now, I shine for both of us. I doodle fearsome, weed-eating sea monsters across those troublesome margins. I paragraph all the little galaxies we used to visit between our fingertips, back when the Universe was just a touch and a whisper away.
I shine for all the sentences my little word still wants to make - and I shine for the kind of heartbreaking smile you can only write on worn, faded bits of paper, where all the world's most precious scribbles have been collected.
What I will not do is sit crumpled and forgotten in the corner, watching a stream of throwaway doodles rush past...
and wondering why my victory has been stolen by a world that wants us to live the wrong way round.