Sometimes it feels like I’m this crazy person, sitting under a tree on a hill-top a little way out of town, typing away furiously on an imaginary typewriter, folding each page up into the shape of a paper airplane, and launching it into the wind to fall somewhere on the town below – where somebody might find it, unfold it, and read it.
You never quite know who’s going to find the planes you throw – who’s going to read the words they contain. You expect the majority to not even notice the crumpled up words stuck in a nearby hedge, or run over by a truck earlier that morning. Sometimes though – sometimes people find the plane, pick it up, unfold it, read it, and look around to see where it came from. Sometimes they spot you up at the top of the hill, and seek you out – making their way slowly up the hill towards you, unfolded paper still in hand – to find out more about you.
Those people are the best people.