The Storyteller


I am a collector of books. Perhaps I am not a poet, but a storyteller. I am a reader. The works of those that have come before me know far more than that brain of mine that longs to be satiated. I lust for life and prose and words and literature. They fill my bones with myth and magic. They embed themselves in my nomadic mind.

I am a traveler. I long to climb over cerulean mountains, blister my toes among cobblestone paths of ginger and auburn sand, and let the tides hold me in a welcome home sea.

It is through novels and my rambling feet that I can experience far more lives than the one I have been granted. Dear humans, we used to be so free. We used to wander and wonder – when did we allow four walls to trick us into believing we are home? We have the key to set ourselves free from a prison fraught with familiarity and certainty. We must be okay with turning brass doorknobs and breaking our knotted roots. We must be okay with leaving.

But my beloved, you ask me why?

Because I am wild like lightning that can bend trees to its will. There is so much that will be left unanswered, darling. And I simply can’t have that. I won’t have that. I was made to run with wolves and paint the stones of caves red with wonder.

I am not an archetype, I will not be anonymous; I am ageless, passionate, and filled with such natural fury that when I leave this place, the lands I have wandered across will take me in and plant my soul in a fantasy I made my reality.

Let me grow my hair long; let it tangle in the wind, for what is humanity if not wild chaos?

Because the true question is, love, why not?

– Samantha Prasad


  1. You did write that by yourself? I’m waiting for your book to be released!

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