You always wondered about the second person. Because you always knew that you was the second person, but that never made much sense to you. Because you was never you. You was only ever someone else.
But weren’t you the first person in the first place? Everything you read went through you. You were the one processing it.
Was there something wrong with your lens, with your view that made them secondary?
Every experience is yours. Every breath, every touch. Every kiss, every searing pain. Every story and tale.
They’ve always been yours. You refuse to settle for a backseat to your own life, leaning forward only to give the driver (whoever that was) commentary on where you were going (wherever that was), though you’re certain that your voice is only fading further into the sound of rubber treads on asphalt. You’re racking up miles not your own.
So you read and you write, and you’re hesitant to use this supposed “second person” because it feels so much less personal. Foreign, presumptuous, even. But you power through it. It is worth it to know for even a moment that your voice is heard, that it is felt deeply and personally by another. You know that’s what it’s for in the first place.
You are not a page. You are not a seldom-used narrative voice.
You are the only narrative voice you will ever know. And you are set free by that.
You is the first person.
You are the first person.