“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
Written March 13, 2014
I’ve been reflecting recently on the role of anonymity and persona with regards to blogging. See, people follow blogs because they like what they see — partly the writing, but also the writer. If the writer insists upon signing everything with a username and keeps, say, a painting of Calvin and Hobbes as a profile picture, she hovers in space, ephemeral, a mysterious entity that’s harder to pin down for lack of an anchor. There’s no name, no face, just a hazy cloud of attributes assembled from words.
If you aren’t given a mental image to work with, you’ll create your own. What am I, in your head? A storm cloud, to match my theme colors? A living Calvin or Hobbes? A deity living among spiraling galaxies? A little girl with her heart on her sleeve? A mature woman with the tenacity to take on the world? A man, because somewhere along the way you missed my gender? A capricious little blog fairy, dancing across your screen?
I’m genuinely curious. Who do you think I am?
I know, I know. We all do it. I’ve already done it more times than I can remember. But this time it’s different, I swear.
I’m in college, halfway through my engineering program, and all of the sudden it comes to me in a flash of insight from heaven above: I’m in the wrong major. Continue reading