Who am I?

I am a little girl, who’s been too old for a little too long.

I am a melancholic, sort of frizzy headed, big hearted, fool.

I am a sarcastic and silly and (to give myself a pat on the back) thought provoking infant.

I’m always annoyingly asking why.

I fancy disappearing acts. I fancy literature. I fancy intellectual arguments. I fancy lying, which I’m surprisingly only willing to admit now. I am someone who says what they believe, which I didn’t used to do, but somewhere in life I decided that when I’m dead; when I join the soil and become food for thought (metaphorically) and worms (literally) I’d very much regret not saying what I believed. Which is a lot. And so I talk. I talk through words on paper, and I talk to God. Really, I talk to whoever will listen, which isn’t many people. So to the sky it all goes. In the pages of a tossed around, very used, very loved, journal. I talk to people sometimes, but as a jester. It sounds sort of like a joke. I’m sort of a joker, I suppose. A blessing, perhaps. (Jester’s privilege) A curse, I know. I guess when you’re a clown it’s rather hard for you to ever become a philosopher. When you wear a mask, it molds to your face, and becomes sort of hard to take off. I guess things I thought were temporary, are still around, much after the fact. I guess that’s just the way things go. When I was little I was really fond of the idea that people just said what they wanted on paper, and the world read it, and the people with their mindset just, sort of, stuck around. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now. Saying it. Waiting for someone to stick around.

I’m so insanely grateful for the vast capacity and seemingly never - ending scope of words and literature. You forget just how much there is to say, until you start talking. The great thing is, there will never be a shortage on words. The even greater thing is, there will never be a shortage of people to reach. As people are dying, people are being born. When I die, there will be a little good looking baby coming out of a wailing mothers cervix with a pair of miu miu glasses on, and a quill. Things have never - not come full circle. And I have too many things to say, and too many places to be to be limited. I have too big of a spirit. Ouroboros, baby! The truth of the matter is that there is no end, and perhaps that means there was never a beginning. And if it’s true that we were made in the image of a limitless and never - ending God, then we must be limitless and never - ending as well, no?

Truth is, I’ve been too silent for too long, and I must speak.

I quite liked the idea of staying gullible and unknowing. I liked the idea of being someone who smiles just because. Though, I’ve never been like that. I’ve always thought too hard, and I always knew too much. And that’s something I’m still battling. The loss of purity. The jump from a mother’s teat to drinking tequila on a Saturday. From thinking the helicopter in the night sky was Santa Claus on his sleigh, to desperately feigning for a way to get on that plane, book that flight, escape. And why this is a struggle, is because I did it to myself. I pried those baby teeth out with floss and a doorknob. I caused my own fall from purity. And now, here I am, years later, trying to place the baby teeth back in my mouth. Attempting to shrink back into my old height with bad posture. Giving my mother extra tight hugs so maybe I’ll slip back into her belly. Trying with scruples to reverse the irreversible.

But I’m too wise. And I have too many things to say, and too many things to do, to be an incapable infant.

So, if I had to describe myself to you right now,

I’d be a fool, I’d have a painted face.

Though, I’d have a makeup wipe in my hand; I’d be ready to reveal something. Even if it was only my eyes, or my mouth. I’d say I was wise, but the only wise people in the world are the ones who know they know nothing. Yes? I am a little lost, but I’ll figure that out. Mostly, I just have a lot to say. And so I’ll say it. And you’ll listen, or maybe you won’t. However, I must say what I need to say, and I must have an outlet to do so. I also must remind you that there’s no way that you are any less capable of understanding or dissecting the world around you than anyone else. You just have to pick up that novel, write that grammatically incorrect essay, share those unpopular opinions. All you have to do is move.

So, move.