If a genie appeared and offered three wishes, the first would be the only one worth making. Infinite wishes betray the premise—they hollow out the point. The trick isn’t to ask for more, it’s to ask well. So I would wish for the ability to write as though casting spells upon the world. To breathe words that alter the weather of hearts, shift the tides of thought, and restore something of the forgotten grace in the human condition.
Because through that wish—through the alchemy of language—might come compassion, kindness, and quiet reflection. The boorish and the brittle cannot feel the sorrow or the depth that accompanies genuine composition. They are untouched by it. But to write with that kind of power, that kind of vulnerability, would make the world—our world—less cruel. Not perfect, not saved, but softened.
The second and third wishes? Redundant. When language itself becomes a form of peace, every word is already a prayer.
Daedelus Kite 