Some day, I hope to drag myself home.

When I get there, I want to be hunched over. I want my arms to move with a heaviness that treats the air is if it were water, yet bound by the full wrath of gravity. I want my shredded clothes to reveal the countless wounds I've sustained. I want my skin to be hidden behind layers of blood, of dirt, of burns, and of frostbite. I want my joints to wobble like I'm just learning to walk, and I want them to creak like rusty hinges, as a constant reminder of the miles I've put on them. I want to look at people as if I were unaware of their presence, as if I might walk straight through them. I want my eyes to speak determination, but my eyelids to blink in the slow, heavy manner that says I am on the cusp of a dream. I want to be at the point where I couldn't take another step, because my legs just wouldn't have the strength to put me that far. My journey will have gone exactly as far as it was meant to have taken me.

When I get there, I don't want anyone to speak. I want my appearance to speak more volumes my tongue could, and I want their curiosity to be satiated in the visual presentation of my journey, and I want them to draw their own thoughts and conclusions. I want them to understand, without being made to. I want there to be no mistake in their minds about the truth of what is presented before them.

Do you understand?