I open the door hesitantly, but trusting and curious enough that I take that initiative. What will greet me?
Will I be thrown into a dark, metal lift, hearing only the sounds of creaking? Is there a girl standing there, shyly looking at her shoes as her personality and past are outlined? Is there an entryway I must cross first, through the ancient history of the world I’ve entered?
This, this is why I travel. But, coupled with the delight of a new place are feelings of apprehension of where I will be taken next. I may open the door, but the journey is one in which I follow the mind tracks of the author afterwards.
Please don’t force my eyes to see gory shreds of a person amidst an otherwise enthralling tapestry of words. Don’t make me swallow a detailed draught of misery when you have the opportunity and power to dose me immersively with a more intelligent and simpler vintage.
I want to visit the differing landscapes of your stories, formed and built by a unique mind. Dragging me through gritty details soils my thoughts and convinces me of the dirty qualities of your own.