I want to create art just for the mere act of putting your name on. Dedication, I heard someone call it these days. I desire to generate something rather aesthetic built from the multitude of these mental roads intertwining in head and heart, something solid and adorable to put between covers; as much as I linger to watch something equally adorable emerge from the colonial powers of you and me between sheets. I want to make history, my history, with you. I want you to fill my pages, to be my story, the exact line that is complete even before falling prey to the eye. Not because I feed on your applause, your admiration, this very look on your face telling me you’re proud of your choice. Forget that. It’s not me waiting at this sheet of paper’s corner shop, doggy-stylish, face down, lingering for your hand to come and send strokes. For the pleasures that come with acceptance. I didn’t opt for those, and still I don’t. I desire to come up with a self-fulfilling expression, a perpetual motion of you and me and this anticipation we sometimes allowed ourselves to whisper at nites: Us. Deciphering the indecipherable, obscure semiotics of you. I intend to: Name you. Write you down. Metamorphose you who. Is (then) becoming a text, a sound, a fine texture to touch. I linger to share your meaning. You meaning you. You meaning it all.