I lied.
I don’t just want to live a happy life; I won’t be content.

I want to leave an indelible mark on this world; to be the name everyone reveres and fears in the same breath. The idea of “averageness” frightens me beyond all rational thought. The concept of every trace of my existence being erased from the earth is horribly agitating.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be this way – perhaps I should be lucky to simply be happy, to have found love and friendship and the joys of prosaic life – but there is a restless voice in me that refuses to be settled.

I want consequence.

I want to know that somewhere, in a room I have never set foot in, someone might say my name and mean something by it. Not a passing detail in a story, but as the story itself. I want my words, my work, my presence to press itself so firmly into the soil that it is impossible to wash away with the tide of time.

That sounds a little arrogant. It probably is. But anonymity feels like a second kind of death. To live an entire life only to dissolve into the background noise – that thought unsettles me.

So I suppose the truth, my truth, is: I don’t just want to live. I want my breath to be woven with summer winds, and for my words to live within pages perused by hundreds.

Is it so wrong to want the world to remember my name?

Yours truly,
Divi