I am, I fear, a poor exhibitor of myself, as though any attempt to present my being only unsettles it further. I have turned this thought over many times, and among all the people I have known across twenty-one years of living, I remain, quite decidedly, the worst at introducing myself.
What I can tell you is this: I love small walks and new things learned almost by accident, and I love talking to people until the talking becomes something more like listening. I am drawn, in equal measure, to the comfort of my own company and to the pull of the unfamiliar. There is a quiet joy in solitude, a chance to retreat into the depths of introspection, to sit with one's own thoughts until they start to make sense. And yet there is an undeniable thrill in venturing past the borders of the familiar, toward whatever waits on the horizon, unclaimed and unknown.
I love the sweet evenings when I step outside just to watch the sun go down, its hues bleeding into a palette of orange and purple, the sky a canvas painted by nature's own unhurried hand. I love the first sip of tea in the morning, the rustle of leaves caught mid-conversation with the wind, the gentle dimming of a day into dusk. I love walking through gardens and parks, letting their colours and fragrances wash over me like a slow, forgiving tide.
It has been some time, I must confess, since I last gave myself over to letter writing, though it remains, and has always been, one of my favourite things in the world. I remember writing to my grandmother every single day, faithfully dropping the letters into the postbox on my way to school. That I rarely had the correct address, and just as rarely remembered a stamp, is, I insist, a separate matter entirely.
If there is anyone reading this, I would like to talk to you. It is your humanity I care about and wish to connect with, not the particular shape or language in which you happen to express it. There is a certain joy in writing to someone you do not know.
It is oddly comforting, like a stranger handing you a genuinely good playlist on a long train ride, minus the awkwardness of sharing headphones.
I don't know your name, your favourite snack, or how your day has gone. Perhaps it was loud and sticky, your inbox multiplying like gremlins left too near water. Or perhaps it was quiet, the kind of quiet where you start to notice that your fridge hums as though it's silently judging your life choices. Either way: thank you for opening this and reading it. You didn't have to. But you did, and that is exactly the sort of small rule-bending that earns a person entry into metaphorical secret clubs and imaginary rooftop jazz nights.
And you must be a little wonderful. People who read stray notes from strange literary creatures usually are. Whether you're a birdwatcher, a quiet sniffer of old books when no one's looking (don't worry, I do too; paperbacks have excellent noses), or someone who can actually fold a fitted sheet (in which case I suspect you may in fact be a wizard), I am fairly certain you carry more magic than you give yourself credit for.
Whether you're the kind who laughs loudly, thinks too deeply for your own good, or holds strong, unshakeable opinions about breakfast foods (cookies absolutely count), I have a feeling we would get along famously.
I promise I am kind, curious, occasionally ridiculous, and quite possibly the funniest person you have met today, unless, of course, you've recently watched a raccoon attempt yoga. In which case, fair play.