The Maverick

Because what else would I do? There is nothing I'm more suited for. The words fight to be freed from my mind, strain at the tips of my fingers for want of a representation on paper. I have composed my life, continuously. Thoughts, feelings, ideas -- all recorded and edited and written in my head. The lives of those around me no safer from the frantic author that is myself. I write them down too. Sometimes real paper, sometimes the air around them, for them to read later, or simply for the preservation of truth as I see it. In the quiet, in the crowd, in the storm, in the sun, in the chaos...always a narration running. I see things in words, see moments in sentences, relationships in stories. Everyone a character and everything a plot. It's how I connect, it's how I live, it's how I breathe. What would I be if not this? What course would my life take it not this one? To set it aside for the pursuit of things more trivial or more honored would be to accept a lie. No silence, for fear it would last forever. The voice cannot be quited, the argument denied, the idea slain. They endure. In the post-it, in the letter, in the essay. In the dust on your car. It's not a choice, not a path taken. It's what I am, it's the vehicle by which I go the path. The rules and the confines of the accepted art, those I can learn -- those I can be taught. The perfection of them will come with time. Or it will not. But they hinder me not, they are but the surface of the truth which lies beneath. A decoration, a refinement. Secondary. To have them and nothing more is to have a flower, plastic and fabric. Beautiful to look at, but with no merit of its own, no way to create, no roots, no fragrance. The real flower, spotted with dirt, imperfect in appearance, so much more beautiful than its plastic counter part. Not severed from grace, not removed from passion -- but defined by its imperfections and by them colored with authenticity. What would I be if not this? Silent, mute, walking death. Through the craft grown and made alive. Through the encouragement and critic made strong. Confidence tempered with humility. Passion molded through perseverance and hard work. I become that which I do. I become that which I write. It writes me.