In fact just last weekend I was in Cancun and Morocco. And the week before that, I was in San Francisco and New York. Not in the same week or the same day. But in the same second.
I’ve straddled real worlds and fake worlds. I’ve stood across the boundaries of space and time. I’ve lived in the past, present and future all within the same moment.
Have I uncovered a worm hole and built my own time machine? Discovered a new branch of physics and out-smarted Einstein? Finally cracked the code on quantum mechanics? Goodness, no. I read a book.
There have been times when I’ve actually felt the inscribed aesthetics, so even when I’m sunbathing in the Mayan Riviera I’m also freezing my ass off in Prague.
There have been times when I’ve actually seen the written surroundings, so even when I’m staring out my window at the purple ombre skyline, I’m also observing the spires of Medieval churches intermingled amongst the tops of Majestic Palms.
There have been times when I’ve actually tasted the drafted palate, so even when I’m taking my last sip of Chamomile tea, I’m also catching snowflakes on my tongue.
Because that’s what good books do.
And I want to be part of the prana behind this.
I want to be someone that opens people’s eyes to alternate universes. That brings the magic of otherworldly places right into their living rooms. That makes them feel like when turning a corner in their sleepy hometown a horned tiger with sparkly butterfly wings will pop out and greet them. I want to be the opener of the metaphysical door, the hand that’s guiding people through.
Because that’s what good authors do.