Artwork By Quentin Monge.
I wish I could write landscapes.
I want to be able to describe the way the yellow cliffs of Portugal look at sunset in high definition.
I wish I could artfully tell you that the Atlantic looks the same over here but smells different than it does from the other side.
I wish I was a writer who could paint it all in a way that makes you, the reader, feel the salt spray on your face and helps you see the yellow sandstone vividly in your mind even though you’re not here.
I wish saying “it smells so fresh and good, and the cliffs look like slices of cheese cake.” wasn’t the best I could do.
I wish I could describe the way the light looked so it shook you, the reader, to your core and made you yearn for the sea.
I really wish I could.
Cuz I think you’d really like it here.
I think it would take your breath away.
I wish I could transport you, the reader, here to the edge of Portugal with me.
I wish I, the writer, was more like Van Gogh, the painter.
Someone who excelled both at self portraits and landscapes.
Someone who can share a lifetime of experience with the stroke of a brush, the choice of a word.
Someone who can describe the night sky, something you thought you had memorized, and open your eyes to all the little details you were unable to see on your own.
I, the writer, worry that the meandering streams of my consciousness might not end up being enough for you, the reader.
That you might start wanting to know what they look like, not just how they feel.
That you, the reader, might start wanting the full picture.
Not just a peek through a window but to be here in the room with me.
Out on the cliffs with me.
I, the writer, want to be able to take you with me.
I want you, the reader, to see the same things I see.
How I see them.
I want to know that you can hear, smell and taste the things I do.
I want us to both feel less alone, even if just for a split second.
I stood on the very edge of a cliff in Portugal yesterday and all I wanted was to share it with you, the reader.
I want to share it all with you.
But the best I can do is tell you that they are beautiful.
And look like slices of cheesecake.
And just hope that that is enough for both of us.
You, the reader
And I, the writer.